


There's a Light at the Top of the Stairs

by dannyfranx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 45,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyfranx/pseuds/dannyfranx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the first Christmas after the war and Harry and Draco have a date with a dead hydrangea bush... they just don’t know it yet.</p><p>[advent fic 2013 - with Sara's Girl - her fic is 'All Must Draw Near']</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: original characters, serious obliviousness, earworm Christmas songs. This story is set in Turn glimpse!verse [used with permission of the author!] and while it will stand alone, some parts will make more sense if you have read Turn, by saras_girl.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, ‘The Box of Delights’ or any and all Christmas songs herein.
> 
> Author’s Notes: This story has been written largely for my beautiful wife, Nat. Three years ago, I asked her to write me a little story that she could read to me whilst I was making Christmas dinner. That little story turned out to be 350,000 words long and more than I could ever have hoped for. In thanks, I offer this silly piece of fluff. Also, for capitu, just because.

**Prompt #1 - a very long scarf**

# Tuesday December 1st 1998,

# ~The Long Scarf~

 

‘Can anyone explain to me why the use of lemon verbena might make this potion more soothing than, say, peppermint?’ Slughorn asks of the less-than-enthused eighth-year class. Draco knows the answer, of course, but if Slughorn thinks he is untucking his hands from where they are hiding in his sleeves, he has another think coming.

 

December has arrived with a vengeance, chilling the castle and its inhabitants to the core. The Potions classroom, with its steamy cauldrons, would normally provide a welcome respite from the cold, a place where one could warm one’s hands over the small blue flames after braving the icy grounds for a Herbology lesson on winter roots.

 

Today, however, brings no such relief. Peeves, caught up in the high spirits of the approaching festive season, has been unleashing something of a campaign of mischief making. It had begun with the extinguishing of all the candles in the Great Hall during dinner one night, and has culminated in a prank that will see any fire flare up and singe off the eyebrows of the lighter.

 

No one is quite sure how he has done it, but they are sure that Filch has been walking around with a perpetually surprised expression for days now. It is, of course, possible that whatever magic is at work has run its course, but no-one seems to want to be the first to experiment.

 

Next to him, Harry shivers and nestles deeper into the obscenely long blue scarf he is wearing looped around his neck and Draco has to resist shuffling closer in the hope of sharing his body heat, especially when a chilly draught wraps around his ankles.  Instinctively, he draws his legs up and succeeds only in thumping them firmly on the underside of the desk.

 

'Bugger,' he hisses in pain, gripping his knee and warming the cold flesh, causing it to throb all the more. Harry glances sideways at him and raises a questioning eyebrow, but Draco just scowls back, abandoning his grip on his knee in favour of drawing his hands back into his sleeves.

 

At the front of the class, Slughorn continues to drone on and on. Draco closes his eyes, trying to separate himself from the cold, the throbbing pain and the dull theory lesson. It's a technique he learned in the war, back when Voldemort still inhabited the manor and before stripy pyjamas, the hospital wing and _take the unknown road_. His mind wanders back to that night, to the sight of Harry sitting there in that patch of moonlight, hair in even more disarray than normal as a result of running his fingers through it a thousand times.

 

The echo of a cackle reaches Draco's ears and his eyes snap open. He glances around, expecting to see the source of the sound, but there is nothing there and no one else seems to have noticed it at all.  Suddenly, there is a flurry of movement as the class scrabble for homework diaries and quills, and Draco pushes the phantom laughter from his mind as he begins to copy down the essay title.

 

The bell rings and, with less than normal enthusiasm, Draco packs his things into his bag.  He and Harry are going to have to cross the icy courtyard to get to Transfiguration and it's going to be treacherous and undignified at best.

 

They have managed only three steps before Harry squawks and disappears from Draco's side. Draco looks around to see Harry sprawled on the floor and tugging at his scarf. Confused, Draco follows the dangling end of Harry's scarf with his eyes until he spots the problem. It has been tied around the leg of his stool in a messy knot. Sighing, Draco drops his bag and crouches down, working on loosening the knots.

 

'Are you alright?' he asks, as Harry inspects his hands for grazes and wipes them on his robes.

 

'Yeah,' Harry grumbles, 'It's not like I'm not used to it, is it?' he asks, throwing a filthy look at his knee. 'The added strangulation was an interesting twist, though.’

 

'Well, if you'd just wear a normal scarf...' Draco begins; Harry rolls his eyes.

 

'Here we go again; you're always going on about my scarf. You know what, Draco? I think you're protesting too much. I think you're jealous of my scarf,' he says, grinning when Draco finally releases him and flicks the (admittedly very soft) scarf back towards him. ‘In fact, I think I’ll get you one just like it for Christmas.’

 

'If you think, for one moment, I would be jealous of something you consider to be good style, then your brains have clearly been addled, Potter,' he insists, using the desk to pull himself to his feet and holding out a hand to Harry. Wincing, Harry struggles to his feet. Draco can't help but wince along with him. He knows that the injury to his knee still causes him quite a lot of pain, especially when getting to his feet, and especially in cold weather. He'll kill Peeves when he catches him; well, he would if he wasn't already dead.

 

Sure enough, when they start walking, Harry hobbles along, putting as little weight on his damaged knee as possible. Reaching out, Draco tugs the bag from Harry’s shoulder, looping it over his own, and thus providing him with more stability as he slows his speed to match Harry’s. They are going to be late for Transfiguration; there is no way they are crossing the courtyard now. They’re going to have to go the long way. Draco grins at the realisation.

 

‘What are you grinning at, you loon?’ Harry asks, as he hops along next to Draco, using the cold stone wall for support.

 

‘Your knee is playing up,’ Draco points out, and then, so as not to seem sadistic, ‘Which means we’ll have to go through the kitchens.’

 

A slow smile creeps across Harry’s face, matching his own. ‘Kreacher’s hot apple juice,’ he whispers conspiratorially.

 

‘Well, we might as well,’ Draco says, as nonchalantly as possible. ‘After all, Kreacher does so like to make a fuss of you, the house-elves are the only ones who can control the fires at the moment, and it isn’t as though McGonagall is going to chastise you for being late, is it?’

 

‘And what about you?’ Harry asks with a half smile.

 

‘Me? Well I’m helping, of course,’ he insists, indicating Harry’s satchel.

 

**‘Your altruism is an inspiration to the kids,’ Harry deadpans, as he waits for Draco to tickle the pear and let them into the kitchens. As the door swings open, they are assaulted by a wave of warmth that wraps around them and tugs them in.  
**


	2. part two

AN – just a note to say that I am aware that the dates don’t tie up exactly with those in Turn, e.g. Draco says [in Turn] that he has had seventeen years of watching Harry sleep. This story would make that nineteen years. Please just go with me! :)  
  
**~*~**  
  
‘Draaaaco,’ Harry whines pitifully, and Draco looks up from where he is putting the finishing touches to his Transfiguration essay.  
  
‘Yes, Haaaarry?’ he mimics, looking up at his friend and struggling to suppress a smile.  Harry’s posture is every bit that of a sulky teen and there is no trace in this moment of the hero who saved the wizarding world.  
  
‘I can’t do it,’ he insists petulantly, throwing down his quill and looking at Draco with what he is sure Harry considers to be his most appealing expression, and if it works, just a little bit, he doesn’t need to know.   
  
‘And what would you like me to do about that?’ Draco teases.  
  
‘Help me?’ Harry begs, and Draco smiles.  
  
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he offers, ‘but not tonight.’    
  
‘Why, what are you up to?’ Harry asks, rolling up his homework now that he no longer has to worry about tackling it tonight.  
  
‘I’m going into the village,’ Draco admits, rolling up his own homework and tucking it, along with textbook and quill, into his bag. ‘I’m meeting someone.’  
  
‘Oh, yeah?’ Harry asks, and Draco doesn’t think he’s imagining the fact that Harry’s disinterest is entirely feigned.  
  
‘Blaise,’ Draco offers, answering the question that Harry hadn’t actually asked.  
  
‘Oh, right,’ Harry says and if anything he sounds even more jealous than before.   
  
‘You’re welcome to come along,’ Draco finds himself saying, before he really knows what he is doing. It’s going to be an awkward enough reunion with his oldest friend without bringing Harry Potter into the fray.   
  
‘No, you’re alright, I have a meeting with McGonagall in about an hour anyway,’ Harry says, seeming to relax slightly.   
  
‘What for?’ Draco asks, as they gather their bags and coats and leave the library.  
  
‘No idea,’ Harry shrugs, ‘You know McGonagall.  It’s probably something to do with the Ministry again.  Maybe they want me to do a Christmas radio address like the Queen.’   
  
‘Just when I thought your head couldn’t get any bigger,’ Draco retorts and Harry, ever the refuge of sense and maturity, pokes out his tongue.  


  
  
As Draco makes his way down the main drive of Hogwarts, he is exceptionally grateful for the warming charm laced into the expensive winter coat his mother sent him from Sweden. Frost crunches beneath his boots and his breath plumes in front of him.  The temperature tonight is subzero and part of him wishes that he were back in the eighth-year common room, drinking tea in front of fire as Dean Thomas tries to teach them all to play poker, a game at which Hermione is unsurprisingly awful and Pansy is predictably excellent.  
  
  
Still, at least it’s dry, he thinks tipping back his head to admire the star-littered sky and the bright moon that make walking along the lane to the village a little less treacherous than it might have been. And there is no denying that the frosty night air tastes fantastic.  He still hasn’t quite got used to the novelty of being able to go where he wants when he wants. After a full year of being shut up in a rundown old guesthouse with his parents, he had been more grateful than most when McGonagall had informed the eighth-years that they would be subject to a relaxation of rules.  
  
As he rounds the corner and Hogsmeade comes into view, Draco smiles. Jewel-bright patches of light adorn the neat little shops and houses that have shut out the night. At the end of the street, light and noise and warm, savoury smells pour out of the Three Broomsticks.  
  
He pushes his way into the pub and is met by a deep rumble of laughter.  Looking around, he sees Hagrid, sitting in the corner with Professor Slughorn and laughing heartily, and, on the opposite side of the room, tucked away next to the roaring fire which has already been hung with Christmas stockings, he spots Blaise.  The table in front of him is littered with parchments and he pores over them, the remnants of his dinner apparently having been drafted into use as a makeshift paperweight against the icy gusts that drift through the pub any time someone enters or leaves.   
  
Pulling off his gloves, Draco stuffs them into his pockets, and makes his way over to the bar which has been festooned with holly and ivy, tinsel and tiny lights, in preparation for the coming holiday.  Madame Rosmerta eyes him warily as he orders two glasses of mulled mead, reminding him that not everyone has forgiven him his past.  Not that he thought for one moment she might. He had, of course, formally apologised to her for his behaviour, once he had been granted his freedom; however, despite saying that his apology had been accepted, she still views Draco suspiciously whenever they have cause to meet.  He had seriously considered just giving the Broomsticks a wide berth in future, but Harry had talked him out of it.    
  
‘If you’re just going to avoid everyone who doesn’t trust you right away, I’ll help you with your search for a nice hermitage now, shall I?’ he had said, when they had first gone in there for a drink and Draco had expressed a desire to leave after only five minutes.  Harry had been right, however much it pained him to admit it, and now, six months on, she still regards him with suspicion, but the outright hostility has long since passed.  
  
He smiles at her reassuringly, continuing his charm offensive, as he gathers the glasses and weaves his way past the crowd at the bar towards the fireplace.   
  
Blaise looks up as he approaches and his face splits into a broad grin which Draco can’t help mirroring.  His friend looks well, really well.  When Draco had seen him last he had been thin and drawn, worried about what his mother planned to do. Draco knew that Voldemort had a strong interest in bringing the pure-blood Zabinis and their wealth into his fold, which would have left them with two equally unappealing options: join him, or die.  Abriana Zabini was, however, not one to believe in no-win situations, and she had immediately dispatched Blaise to Italy.    
  
‘It’s good to see you, Blaise,’ Draco offers, holding out his hand for his friend to shake, only to be enveloped in a bone-crushing hug.   
  
‘You too, Caro,’ he enthuses as Draco feels his feet lift from the floor and oxygen become an issue.  This Blaise is not only healthier than the one of eighteen months ago, he is bigger.  Not taller, necessarily—Blaise has always been tall—but bulky, more solid and just a little bit rounder. Draco taps him on the back somewhat feebly, and Blaise returns him to his now somewhat shaky feet.   
  
‘So, how have you been?’ Blaise asks, as he stuffs myriad papers into a fine leather briefcase and takes his seat.  ‘How’s Hogwarts, still the same?  
  
‘Yes and no,’ Draco says, taking the seat opposite him and smiling at how easy it is. ‘Some things will always be the same,’ he confides. ‘The lessons, the castle, Quidditch, are all as they ever were,’ Draco says casually.  
  
‘Except these days you’re allowed out on a school night,’ Blaise teases good-naturedly.  
  
‘As long as I’m back by eleven,’ Draco confirms. ‘The people are different, though,’ he continues. ‘I think I’m different.’  
  
‘I’ll say!’ Blaise exclaims a little too loudly, but Draco just smiles; he doesn’t know what exactly what has happened since Blaise left England but obviously the Mediterranean sun has agreed with him. ‘I don’t think the Draco of our youth would ever have ended up friends with Harry Potter of all people,’ Blaise says, thankfully lowering his voice.  
  
‘Not just Harry, either, all the eighth-years get along well; it was like we came back after the war and we had collectively decided just not to bother with antagonism any more. It’s very strange, but not unwelcome,’ Draco admits. ‘What about you, anyway? You say I’m different—you’re barely recognisable.’  
  
‘Ah, yes,’ Blaise admits, patting his belly happily. ‘Sicilian cooking will do that to you.’  
  
‘Is that where you were then? Sicily?’ Draco asks, glad to be finally finding out about Blaise’s disappearance.   
  
‘Yes, a tiny wizarding town in the Apennine mountains in the north-east of the island. It was run by Cosa Nostra, so we were pretty safe.  
  
‘By whom?’ Draco asks with a frown.  
  
‘Cosa Nostra,’ he repeats, ‘it’s like a group of powerful families who have gathered together to protect their own, and commit crimes, whilst controlling the government like puppets.  Apparently Mother had friends in morally dubious places.’  
  
‘So it would seem,’ Draco agrees, eyebrows raised. ‘She was never really a paragon of virtue though, was she?’ he points out.  
  
‘Certainly not,’ Blaise insists, ‘I think she would have been horrified at the idea.’   
  
Draco offers Blaise a sympathetic smile; despite his demeanour, he knows that Blaise must miss his mother. Their relationship was often odd and always strained. They were often more brother and sister than mother and son, and, on the rare occasions that she was between husbands, Blaise would often accompany his mother to social functions in lieu of a date.  She would talk to him about her men, would ask his advice and then ignore it, and when caught up in the whirlwind of a new romance, would disappear for months at a time.    
  
‘She was an odd fish, my mother. I can’t help thinking, she was so troubled all her life, I think she will be happy to have found peace at last,’ Blaise says pensively, staring into the flames. ‘She’s been gone for more than a year now and I still find myself doing the strangest things, because it’s what she would have expected of me.’  
  
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Draco says raising his glass, ‘To mothers, who can bend us to their will no matter how long they have been dead or living in Sweden.’  
  
‘To our mothers, the master manipulators,’ Blaise agrees, clinking glasses with Draco.  ‘She’s still enjoying Scandinavia, then?’ he asks of Narcissa.  
  
‘As far as I know,’ Draco says, rolling the stem of the glass between his fingers. ‘I think she’s a little reluctant to return to the manor,’ he admits.    
  
‘And how is your father?’ Blaise asks with a touch of apprehension.   
  
‘Still an unmitigated arse,’ Draco says, rolling his eyes. ‘Azkaban isn’t quite the place it once was, though it’s still pretty horrid. He’s just rather resentful of everything, quick to blame anyone for his situation but himself.’  
  
‘That sounds like Lucius,’ Blaise agrees. ‘I can only imagine how you managed to stay hidden away with him for a whole year without committing patricide.’  
  
‘It was a close run thing, I assure you, and I think my mother was close to murdering him a couple of times as well,’ Draco admits, thinking back to the hours spent practising the meditation techniques he had learnt for Occlumency just to prevent him from hexing his father. Any magic at all could have revealed them to Voldemort of course, but there were times when he had thought it might have been a relief to be tortured and murdered by Voldemort if it released him from the perpetual whining of Lucius Malfoy.  
  
‘Have you been to visit him?’ Blaise asks and Draco shakes his head.  
  
‘Neither of us have; we write letters, of course, but I think we all endured enough of each other’s company last year to easily see us through the next five.’  
  
‘So he doesn’t know about Harry, then?’ Blaise asks, his eyes twinkling mischievously.  
  
‘He knows we’re friends,’ Draco confirms, feeling like he’s missing something. ‘He knows that it was Harry who got us out in the first place.’  
  
‘That wasn’t what I meant, Draco, and you know it,’ Blaise scoffs.  
  
‘I have no idea what you mean, Blaise,’ Draco protests, but he can feel his cheeks beginning to heat as he thinks he might have caught Blaise’s meaning.   
  
‘CODSWALLOP!’ Blaise exclaims, and at least half the bars occupants turn to look at them.  
  
‘Blaise,’ Draco pleads.   
  
‘I’m sorry, Caro, but you know exactly what I’m talking about,’ Blaise insists. ‘How long have you been in love with him?’  
  
Draco stops breathing for a moment. He contemplates denying it, considers getting up and running out, running until he can’t run any more, but really that’s all he _has_ been doing. He’s been running ever since the hospital wing, trying desperately not to look at the thing that has been becoming more and more obvious.  But he’s known it for a long time.   
  
He knew things had changed when he stood alongside Harry in Dumbledore’s office and agreed to tell him everything he could. He knew that he cared as he lay on his bed in the rundown guesthouse looking out through the skylight night after night, wondering where Harry was and how his secret quest was going. He knew that he wanted more when Tonks had come to check up on them and been called away because the attack on Hogwarts had begun.  He knew, when he had grabbed her sleeve as she had Apparated away, that he was doing it in the hope of helping Harry and not out of some brave desire to be involved.  He knew he loved him when Hagrid had emerged from the forest with Harry’s apparently dead body in his arms.  He had stood with the Weasley twins, shocked beyond tears as Voldemort had claimed victory and he knew the relief he had felt when Harry had moved had had nothing to do with self-preservation.  
  
Finally, Draco meets Blaise’s eyes and he is reassured to see understanding there, not contempt or amusement.  
  
‘I hardly even know,’ he admits, slumping against the sticky surface of the table.   
  
‘Does he know?’ Blaise asks, voice filled with kindness.   
  
‘No,’ Draco insists, shaking his head violently, ‘and he never can.’  
  
‘Oh, Draco, I’m sorry,’ Blaise apologises, reaching across to pat Draco reassuringly on the upper arm, and causing him to slop his drink.  
  
They sit in silence for a while until the clock on the mantelpiece strikes half past ten.    
  
‘I should get going,’ Draco says, making to drain his glass, finding himself sadder than he expected to leave Blaise’s company.  He’s forgotten just how easy his friend is to talk to, how they know each other so well that so much goes without being said.   
  
‘Don’t want to miss curfew,’ Blaise smiles, then he pauses, ‘Look, I’m back in the country for the foreseeable future now, I’ve set up the import side of the company, now I need to sort out the distribution, so I’ll be around if you need to talk or, you know, whatever.’  
  
Draco smiles warmly at his friend making a mental note to meet up again before the new year.    
  
‘What business?’ he asks, realising he never got around to asking Blaise about his suitcase full of notes.  
  
‘Oh,’ Blaise grins, surprised, ‘I’m importing magical plants; there’s good money to be made in the import of Mediterranean plants and I’ve managed to set up some reliable suppliers, so we’ll just have to see how it goes.’   
  
Before he knows it, Draco is being swept into another overwhelmingly large hug.  He doesn’t know when his shy reserved friend became such a tactile person, but he imagines that the hugs are probably here to stay.   
  
Out in the frost, Blaise slaps Draco firmly on the back and Disapparates.  Draco turns and starts trudging back up to the school.  His eyes sting and his cheeks are icy where the tears leave their tracks and he’s glad he can blame it on the cold wind.


	3. part three

**Prompt #3 - a carol service**

**Thursday, December 3rd, 1998**  
 **~~ The Orange is the Best Bit ~~**  
  
‘So, how was it last night?’ Harry asks, dropping down on the bench next to Draco and helping himself to toast triangles and crispy bacon. ‘Blaise well?’   
  
‘Yes, thank you,’ Draco smiles, brushing toast crumbs from his fingers and reaching for the coffee pot. ‘He’s back from Italy for the foreseeable future, setting up a business in magical plants.’  
  
‘Huh,’ Harry comments, nodding as Draco gestures towards him with the coffee pot and proffering his mug.   
  
‘What about you?’ Draco asks. ‘Did you have a fun meeting with McGonagall? Should I be calling you _your Majesty?_ ’   
  
‘Sadly, no,’ Harry sighs, whilst practically inhaling his coffee. ‘I think the closest I’m going to get to being queen is a pair of heels, some false eyelashes and a Saturday night slot at the Black Cat.’  
  
‘Now there’s a disturbing thought,’ Draco mutters as an image of Harry dressed as Sandra the Scintillating Sorceress forces its way into his mind. ‘So what did she want?’  
  
‘There’s a Muggle Studies field trip tonight, she was wondering if I would be willing to help out. Hermione’s coming as well,’ Harry explains, draining his cup and clambering to his feet.  
  
‘Where are you going?’ Draco asks, slipping from the bench and tugging Harry’s bag out of his hand. Harry offers him a grateful smile and a small bubble of joy settles in Draco’s chest as they make their way into the Entrance Hall.  
  
‘We’re going to a Christingle service,’ Harry explains, or, at least, Draco thinks that’s what he’s doing, because the words he’s saying have no meaning whatsoever.  
  
‘I have no idea what you just said,’ Draco admits.   
  
Harry’s knee suddenly gives out completely and Draco slams into him, pinning him to the wall to prevent him from falling. He gulps hard as Harry hugs him tightly, waiting for the moment that his knee will support his weight again, and Draco is surrounded by Harry’s warm fresh scent, a combination of coffee, grass, and frosty mornings that Draco finds absolutely intoxicating.  
  
He can feel Harry’s heart beating fast as it reacts to the adrenaline of an almost-fall and he prays that his own isn’t really beating as quickly or as noticeably as he feels it is.  
  
‘Do you not have your crutches with you?’ Draco chastises, deciding that scolding Harry will provide at least some distraction against the press of his body.  
  
‘They’re in my bag,’ Harry admits, and Draco rolls his eyes.  
  
‘So why aren’t you using them?’ he asks, stepping back once he is certain that the wall is supporting Harry’s weight and rummaging through his bag for the miniaturised crutches before returning them to full size and helping Harry support himself.   
  
‘Because I hate them, as you well know,’ Harry grumbles leaning forward and allowing the crutches to take his weight.   
  
‘I do know that,’ Draco admits, ‘but what do you think my response is going to be?’  
  
‘Do I like falling down?’ Harry offers, making an attempt to ape Draco’s accent. ‘Do I realise that not using them only prolongs the amount of time I’ll need them? Something along those lines.’  
  
‘It’s like I don’t even have to be here,’ Draco says, trying to sound aloof.  
  
‘Yeah, except then I wouldn’t have anyone to pin me to the wall when my impulsive stubborn nature tries to drop me on my arse,’ Harry grins.  
  
‘Maybe it would knock some sense into you,’ Draco suggests.  
  
‘I think if something were going to knock some sense into me it would have happened last year. The stubbornness is probably terminal by now,’ Harry points out, and Draco has no comeback for that; he’s probably right.  
  
‘Touché,’ he admits and then, in the hopes of changing the subject and putting the feeling of Harry’s body against his out of his mind, he turns his attention back to their earlier conversation. ‘So what’s this Chris Tingly thing?’ Draco asks.  
  
‘A Christingle service,’ Harry repeats, and Draco can see he is attempting to suppress a smile at his mispronunciation. ‘It’s a church service that they hold at the beginning of the Christmas season.’  
  
‘When is that?’ Draco asks, full of curiosity. He knows about churches, knows that Muggles go there to worship a cruel and powerful wizard who lives in the sky.  
  
Harry is still describing the finer points of Advent when they reach the Transfiguration classroom and Draco’s head is full of questions.  
  
‘So, are you one of those?’ he asks, quietly impressed at how much Harry knows about the whole thing.  
  
‘One of what? Harry asks, eyebrows drawn down into a frown as he manoeuvres himself backwards to lean against the wall.  
  
‘A Christian,’ Draco says, and Harry snorts with laughter.  
  
‘Noooo,’ he insists, ‘definitely not.’ He pauses. ‘I mean, it’s fine if it works for people, but it doesn’t for me.’  
  
‘So, how do you know so much about it?’ Draco asks   
  
‘I went to a church school before Hogwarts. I’ve been to my fair share of services, probably your share as well.’  
  
‘So, if you don’t believe in it, why are you going tonight?’ Draco asks, not unreasonably in his opinion.  
  
‘Well, mainly because they need people to keep an eye on everyone, people who know how to behave in a church,’ Harry says as McGonagall ushers them into the classroom. ‘But also, well, I may not believe in it but it’s a wonderful feeling. It’s like...’ he pauses and screws up his face thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You know when you do a group spell and everyone works together to create something bigger than they could achieve on their own?’  
  
Draco nods.  
  
‘Well, when they get together for things like this, it’s like all their positivity joins together and multiplies and reflects back at them and it just feels amazing.’  
  
‘Oh,’ Draco says as they take their seats and turn their attention to the lesson. Or, at least, that is what Draco should be doing; instead, his head is full of the idea of Advent and church services and collective goodwill. By the time McGonagall sets them to work Transfiguring fire into ice, he has made up his mind.  
  
‘Do you think I could come?’ Draco asks.  
  
Harry, who is focusing hard on his little pot of flames, responds: ‘Do I think you could come, huh? What?’ he looks up suddenly, his cheeks flushed.  
  
‘To the service,’ Draco says slowly, deliberately, trying not to just burst out laughing at the shocked look on Harry’s face. ‘Do you think I could come to the service?’  
  
‘Oh, yeah, sure, I don’t see why not,’ he says, clearly trying to cover the misunderstanding. ‘We’re leaving at six. Oh, and dress warmly, most churches are bloody freezing.’  
  
  
  
Draco waits impatiently in the common room for Harry to appear, wishing he hadn’t already buttoned his coat and tucked in his scarf as he’s now beginning to swelter.  
  
Also, Harry is taking longer to get ready than him—what is that all about? Finally, Harry emerges from the dormitory and everything falls into place. His hair is tidy! Not just some approximation of tidy but actually tidy, styled to within an inch of its life with some sort of product. Behind him, Pansy emerges from the dorm, clutching a comb, a bottle of Sleakeazy’s and wearing a thousand yard stare.  
  
‘So much hair!’ she mutters dramatically to Draco, before flopping down onto the sofa and staring into the flames. Draco shakes his head at her. He has lived with Pansy’s drama for eight years now and he knows that she will have been the one to bully Harry into letting her have a go at his hair. She’s always said that there was no hair she couldn’t style and had been dying to have a crack at Harry’s for years.  
  
Harry steps towards Draco and holds out his arms as if waiting for his approval.  
  
‘Well, don’t you look…’ he pauses, searching for the right word as he takes in Harry’s grey wool coat, dark red scarf, and smart black trousers, ‘strange,’ he finishes, realising that without his messy mop, he just doesn’t look like Harry.  
  
‘I’m not sure how to take that,’ Harry states, wrinkling his nose.  
  
‘With soda and a twist of lemon?’ Draco suggests, and Harry laughs.  
  
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Harry points out, looking around at the entrance to this girls’ dorms for Hermione.  
  
‘You don’t make any sense,’ Draco retorts, no longer certain what he’s talking about.  
  
Luckily he is saved the task of trying to figure out where he was going with his insults by the appearance of Hermione, who bustles into the common room in a red duffle coat and a bright blue scarf.  
  
‘Are we all ready?’ she asks, heading towards the door.  
  
‘Aren’t we waiting for Ron?’ Draco asks. Next to him, Harry winces and Hermione’s expression darkens. He realises immediately that he has said the wrong thing.  
  
‘Ronald doesn’t seem think that learning about other cultures is important,’ Hermione responds acidly.   
  
Draco exchanges a look of alarm with Harry as he holds the door open for them, happy to allow Hermione to march ahead as they amble along behind, restricted by Harry’s speed as he, once again, limps along without crutches. Draco shoots a pointed look at his knee and raises a questioning eyebrow.   
  
‘I have the support on,’ Harry insists vehemently. ‘Besides, with forty eleven and twelve-year-olds and an icy road to negotiate, the crutches are more of a hindrance than a help.’  
  
‘I don’t know,’ Draco considers. ‘If they were to get out of hand, you could always poke them.’  
  
‘Draco,’ Hermione chastises half-heartedly, finally realising that she has accelerated away from them and slowing her pace to match Harry’s. Draco just smirks at Harry, delighted at the conspiratorial smile he receives in return.  
  
As they approach the marble staircase, the sound of forty excited children fills the air and Draco smiles at the sight of all the brightly-coloured coats and hats. At the bottom of the stairs he spots Luna, looking positively normal in a pale blue jacket with a pair of furry green earmuffs. She appears to be as excited as the first and second-years and is chattering animatedly to another older student who has a black wool hat pulled down over bright copper hair.  
  
‘Ron!’ Hermione exclaims, and suddenly she is clattering down the stairs at speed and throwing her arms around a rather smug-looking Weasley. Next to him, Harry is wearing a similarly smug expression.  
  
‘You knew about that, didn’t you?’ Draco asks, amused.  
  
‘Maybe a little,’ Harry admits. ‘He only decided today. I told him you wanted to go and he realised that he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t go as well. Though I think he’d probably rather that Hermione continued to think he chose to surprise her than he was guilt-tripped into it.’  
  
‘I’m sure he would prefer that, yes,’ Draco agrees, thinking that the integrity of Ron’s secret will depend on his general mood.  
  
With more than a little trepidation, Draco descends the stairs and is caught up in the excitement and chatter characteristic of an evening field trip. Eventually, the noise begins to die away as Professor Everly appears and passes a large box to Ron before calling them all to attention.  
  
‘We are going to be leaving in ten minutes. We have ten Portkeys, which will transport us to the village hall about half a mile from where we are going. There will be one older student or teacher for each group of four and I want you to be aware that the minute we leave this hall, their word becomes law. We are going into a Muggle environment with some very strict rules about behaviour, so if they tell you to do something, you will do it, or you will face the consequences. Do I make myself clear?’  
  
There is a general murmur of assent from the gathered students as Luna moves along the row of older students, handing out Portkeys with large red numbers on them. She smiles dreamily as she passes Draco a shiny roasting tray with the number five on it.  
  
‘It’s lovely that you wanted to come, Draco,’ she says in her gently lilting voice, ‘I didn’t even know you liked oranges.’  
  
Draco just looks at her, completely bemused, as, next to him, Harry bursts into a fit of giggles and tries not to drop his sombrero with a vivid number four on it and she moves on to pass a cushion to Hermione.  
  
‘Right!’ Everly bellows, effectively silencing the students again. ‘You were each given a number between one and ten in class today; find the Portkey with your number on it, quickly and QUIETLY please.’  
  
For several minutes, everything is bustle and Draco finds himself saying, ‘No, I’m five,’ so many times that the words begin to lose all meaning.  
  
Before long, he has four eager faces staring up at him, waiting for instruction and immediately he begins to wonder if this was really a good idea. He doesn’t have time to second guess himself, however, as the clock beings to strike six o’clock and Everly is informing them that the Portkeys will activate on the sixth chime.  
  
‘Right, everyone take hold,’ Draco instructs his charges, noting for the first time just how small they are. Two strikes. They jostle around, trying to get a grip on the tray, all three of the girls apparently trying to secure a place next to him. Three strikes.  
  
‘There’s no need to push,’ he insists, separating them out so that the boy and the smallest girl stand either side of him. Four strikes.  
  
He sees the older girls shooting the younger one a venomous look and he makes a mental note to keep an eye on them; the dark haired Ravenclaw reminds him too much of Pansy at that age. Five strikes.  
  
Behind him, he hears Harry bark, ‘don’t push!’ and he knows that whoever made him use his ‘don’t mess with me’ voice is going to be losing house points before the night is out.  
  
He doesn’t hear the sixth strike. He feels the tug behind his navel as the floor seems to drop away from him. He spins through the air, hand stuck to the roasting tray, being buffeted from both sides by his travelling companions. He tries in vain to swat away the long braid of the girl next to him from where it is tickling his face, but the momentum just flings it back towards him each time he brushes it away.  
  
Finally the spin begins to slow and he leans into it, flexing his knees ready for impact, determined that, if nothing else, he will not fall down in front of the young ones. He realises, too late to do anything about it, that Harry will have no such luck. The impact will, without a doubt, be too much for his knee.  
  
The blur begins to slow, shapes become visible and he closes his eyes to keep the dizziness at bay. Around him the air changes, becoming damp and stagnant and smelling faintly of stale cigarette smoke. His toes graze the floor and he leans into the stop. Someone clatters sideways into him and his eyes snap open as he immediately puts out his arm, supporting his travelling companion’s small frame and preventing her from falling to the floor.   
  
The others have not been as lucky and are sprawled awkwardly on the carpet. Around them, the other groups are appearing, the noise levels in the cold, low-slung building slowly swelling as the children shake off their shock and start to struggle to their feet. He sees Harry on the other side of the room, hopping up and down but, miraculously, still upright, and next to him Hermione is pulling children to their feet and helping to brush them off.  
  
‘Right,’ Draco asserts, pulling himself together and holding out a hand to the ridiculously small boy in his group. ‘I don’t know your names,’ he points out as he tugs him to his feet.  
  
‘Matthew,’ the small boy announces, brushing off his hands on his coat while Draco holds out a hand to one of the girls.  
  
‘Crystal,’ says a blonde girl with large bouncy curls who smells strongly of some sweet perfume that mingles with the damp smell in such a way that makes Draco’s nose wrinkle.  
  
‘Lucy,’ offers mini-Pansy with an affected tone of indifference and a coy smile as she lets Draco pull her to her feet and immediately begins straightening her skirt and smoothing down her hair.  
  
‘Daya,’ says the little girl with the long dark plait, looking up at him with enormous, liquid brown eyes.  
  
‘Right,’ he says, ushering them to the side of the room. ‘I’m Draco,’ he tells them and immediately Crystal and Lucy begin giggling uncontrollably.  
  
‘We know,’ they say together, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He doesn’t have time to think about why they find that fact so funny, however, because Harry is shuffling his little group over towards them and Professor Everly is once again standing in the middle of the room and holding up her hands for attention.   
  
‘Right, everyone here?’ she calls over the din and the noise dies down until the only sounds are a little girl’s sniffles and Hermione’s whispers as she mends what appears to be a nastily grazed knee.  
  
‘Good,’ she continues. ‘Mr Weasley will be handing out the Christingles when we get to the church. ‘Once you are sitting down, your helper will light the candle for you. I want to stress to you the importance of being careful with them. If we see anyone messing around once you’ve entered the church, you will be forced to go and wait outside until we are done, and for anyone who thinks that sounds okay, I will tell you that the temperature is currently at two degrees and this service is due to last an hour and a half. Finally, I asked you all to leave your wands at the castle.   
  
‘Anyone who has not done so, please pass them to your responsible adult now. If you are seen with a wand after this point it will be confiscated and you will be serving a week of detentions. Remember, we are about to enter the Muggle world—any breaches in security could be catastrophic.’  
  
Someone tugs on the sleeve of Draco’s coat and he looks down into Daya’s panicked face.  
  
‘I’m so sorry, Draco, I forgot!’ she says, producing a wand from the inside pocket of her coat.   
  
‘ _Ommers!_ ’, he hears Crystal exclaim, but he ignores her, taking the wand from Daya and tucking it into his coat.  
  
‘It’s alright, no harm done,’ he reassures, ‘I shall give it you back when we return.’  
  
At the front of the hall, Everly leads her group out into the night, and the others fall in behind them. As he ushers his group out into the cold, Luna passes him a box of matches and his heart sinks slightly. He knows the theory behind how to use these little red-tipped sticks, but has never actually done it before. He casts a panicked look at Harry as his group catches up and mingles with Draco’s, chattering away as they follow the others along a pavement which sparkles with frost in the light from the harsh orange street lamp.  
  
‘Is there anything else I should be aware of, you know, before it happens?’ Draco asks, attempting to sound disparaging but unable to cover the note of uncertainty in his voice.  
  
‘Like what?’ Harry asks, before bellowing, ‘Keep to the pavement, Amber, or you can sit in the hall on your own until we get back.’  
  
‘Sorry, Harry,’ comes the sing-song apology form a girl who had, until seconds ago, been hopping on and off the kerb as she walked besides Daya.  
  
‘I don’t know,’ Draco offers, ‘but it seems I’m going to called upon to magic fire out of this little box,’ he points out rattling the matches at Harry. ‘I just wondered if I’ll be called upon to make a tit of myself in any other way. Will I have to ride a bicycle, operate a snorkel, re-wire a plug?’  
  
‘I should hope you won’t have to do any of those, though if you do, Christingle services will have got very weird indeed,’ Harry says, shoving his hands in his pockets and ruining the line of his coat.  
  
‘That still doesn’t answer my question,’ Draco points out.  
  
‘Look, all you need to do is stand when I stand, sit when I sit and sing when I sing,’ Harry explains, trying to sound reassuring. Draco is not reassured.  
  
‘Sing? We have to sing? When were you going to mention this? What are we singing? How will I know the words?’  
  
‘Relax, Draco, we’ll be given a book with all the words in; you aren’t going to have to do a solo or anything.’  
  
‘But I won’t know the tune!’ he frets. He’s never been a particularly gifted singer. Yes, he enjoys it, when he’s on his own and there is no-one there to judge his lack of tuning, but singing where people might hear? That’s a different herd of Hippogriffs.  
  
‘It’s fine,’ Harry reassures. ‘Neither will anyone else.’  
  
Eventually the church comes into view, soft light spilling out through its windows to stain the black grass with patches of red and blue. Everly calls everyone to a halt again and they all crowd around, excitement reaching fever pitch.  
  
On the other side of the group, Ron is opening the large box he has been carrying and begins passing something out. The things are passed from hand to hand and Draco sees them coming closer. They look a little like an orange with a candle in the top and he is curious to see what they really are.  
  
Eventually Harry hands him one of the orange globes and all he can do is stare at it. It is an orange with a candle, which has been wrapped in a shiny paper, stuck unceremoniously in the top.  
  
A smooth red ribbon has been tied tightly around the centre, and four small sticks are arranged around the candle, proudly skewering a variety of what he can only assume are Muggle sweets.  
  
‘What is it?’ he whispers to Harry, very confused.  
  
‘It’s a Christingle,’ Harry explains.  
  
‘I’m sorry,’ he says calmly, not wanting to allow his confusion to show in front of his group. ‘I’ve tried really hard, but I just don’t understand what is happening here anymore.’  
  
Harry grins at him. ‘Weird, isn’t it? From what I remember, the orange represents the world, the candle is supposed to be the light of Christ –’  
  
‘The light of who?’ Draco interrupts, confused once more.  
  
‘Christ,’ Harry says again, but Draco just continues to look baffled. ‘The all powerful wizard in the sky?’ he asks and it all becomes clear, for approximately two fifths of a second, until he realises that this still doesn’t make any sense.  
  
‘I thought he was called Jesus?’ Draco asks, floundering for anything he can get.  
  
‘Same guy,’ Harry explains, and Draco nods. He doesn’t know why it’s the same person but ‘why’ questions are completely out of the window right now. It’s as much as he can do to deal with ‘what’.  
  
‘The ribbon is supposed to represent…’ he trails off, looking confused himself. ‘Actually, I have no idea what that is supposed to represent,’ he says with a shrug, ‘and the sticks and the sweets are representative of the four seasons.’  
  
‘And the shiny paper? Draco asks, not entirely sure that the explanation has done anything to alleviate his confusion.  
  
‘That’s so you don’t set fire to the orange,’ Harry says gleefully.  
  
Finally, everyone has an orange and Draco manoeuvres his group to ensure they stay close to Harry’s as they head into the church.  
  
Draco follows Harry though the heavy oak front doors, ushering Matthew, Lucy, Crystal and Daya in front of him.   
  
The inside of the church is dim and only slightly warmer than outside but something about it makes Draco’s skin tingle. The atmosphere is akin to that of a fantastic old library or, perhaps, the Great Hall, and is filled with the aroma of frankincense and the soft murmurs of those already gathered. The entire space is lit by myriad flickering candles, set into sconces on the walls or ornate, heavy candle sticks. The ceiling soars away in intricately carved arches. They reach so high that Draco is left wondering just how the Muggles have managed to create such a beautiful building without the use of magic.   
  
He follows Harry to a long wooden bench and can’t help the slight feeling of panic that rises up when he realises that they are going to have to flank the children if they are to have any hope of keeping order. He had hoped that he would be next to Harry. On the shelf facing the bench are folded sheets of paper that proudly welcome him to Aberfoyle Parish Church’s Christingle service over a line drawing of the church set in its snowy church yard.   
  
Further down the bench he hears Harry telling the children firmly that they should sit quietly and Draco, for now at least, decides to follow Harry’s advice as well, sinking down onto the hard, uncomfortable wooden bench and remembering that Everly had said something about this service being an hour and a half long.  
  
In attempt to stop himself from fidgeting, Draco takes in the other attendees, all dressed in smart coats, and some of the ladies wearing neat little hats. At the front of the church behind a wooden screen stand two rows of well scrubbed children in what appear to be red and white wizard’s robes, standing either side of a table with an ornate gold cross sitting atop it.  
  
The noise level in the church increases slightly and Draco watches two women with the world-weary gait of teachers moving among the children scattered along the first few rows. Behind him, he hears Everly muttering, ‘It’s time.’  
  
Draco looks across at Harry, who is extracting the box of matches from his pocket. Remembering his Muggle studies classes, Draco pushes open the box and extracts the pink headed little stick. He stares at the little rough patch on the side of the box before flicking a nervous look at Harry. Candle lit, Harry has now abandoned the matches and is instead encouraging the children to pass the flame down the row. In theory, he could just wait for the flame to reach them, but that would mean admitting defeat to this ridiculously simple bit of Muggle kit; this is not something he is willing to do.   
  
Taking a deep breath, he balances his orange on the little shelf in front of him, and strikes the match. It obediently flares into life, flickering about as if mocking him for ever suspecting that it wouldn’t. Carefully he holds it out to Matthew’s candle and, with relief, blows out the match, releasing a distinctive-smelling smoke. He watches with pride as the flame travels down the row and he reclaims his orange, lighting his own candle from Matthew’s.   
  
Suddenly the loud and discordant sounds of the organ fill the air and he glances at Harry once more as he gets to his feet and encourages the rest of the row to do the same. Harry turns with the rest of the congregation to look back towards the entrance where a jovial-looking woman in a black robe with a stiff collar is making her way steadily down the centre. When she gets there, the music stops, somewhat abruptly, Draco thinks, and she formally welcomes them to the service.   
  
The next hour and a half is filled with a baffling sequence of sitting and standing. Draco listens as one of the young wizards dressed in white sings in a hauntingly beautiful voice about a cattle shed and Draco sings a song about being still and quiet. A group of twenty five-year-olds stand at the front and warble a song about a small donkey. It is somewhere during the fifth song that Draco finally gets it.   
  
He glances across at Harry again, who is singing with gusto about shepherds and it all just seems to come together. The speech given about the coming of the festive season, with its message of peace and goodwill, the atmospheric light, the heady incense, the general feeling of positivity that flows together from all corners of the church seem to lift Draco and infuse him with a feeling of festivity. Finally, an older group of children take centre stage and bring the proceedings to a close with a song about something called a manger and then the candles are being extinguished and they are shuffling back out of the church and into the street.   
  
The younger students seem caught up in the whole process and as he falls into step beside Harry for the walk back to the village hall and the Portkeys, Draco listens to the enthusiastic chatter.  
  
‘When we used to sing it at primary school, we used to sing ‘when shepherds washed their socks by night.’  
  
‘Did you notice the little rack full of cushions attached to the back of the row in front? I wonder what they were for.’  
  
‘What was that weird smell?’  
  
He glances at Harry. He is smiling, apparently caught up in the collective excitement of a new experience. Draco wishes he could join them but instead he feels unsettled, out of time with everyone else.  
  
‘What’s the matter?’ Harry asks, and he jumps a little, surprised that Harry has noticed. ‘Didn’t you like it?’ he asks.  
  
‘No, I did,’ Draco insists and then, feeling his face heat slightly, he mutters, ‘You’ll laugh.’  
  
‘Promise I won’t,’ Harry says, holding up his hand as some kind of oath.   
  
‘You will, but okay.’ He pauses, knowing that this is going to sound ridiculous, ‘There were six songs.’   
  
‘Um, okay, I don’t...’ Harry trails off. ‘I know I didn’t warn you about the songs but we only sang three of them.’   
  
Draco shudders. ‘I wish you hadn’t pointed that out.’  
  
‘I’m sorry, Draco, I’m really not following,’ Harry says but he doesn’t sound irritated, merely apologetic.  
  
‘Six is never a good number to have of anything. Nor is three for that matter.’  
  
‘A good number for what?’ Harry asks gently.  
  
‘They make me feel uncomfortable... bad numbers just make me feel uncomfortable, and six is a bad number,’ he explains, rather poorly, he feels.  
  
‘Oh, okay then,’ Harry responds simply, and then – nothing.  
  
A good few minutes pass in silence and Draco is just beginning to feel uncomfortable, is trying to find something to say, when Harry clears his throat.  
  
‘Oh, holy night,’ he sings slightly croakily and quietly, as though he’s not quite sure about what he’s doing. ‘The stars are brightly shining,’ he continues, his voice becoming slightly stronger now.   
  
‘This is the night of our dear Saviour’s birth,’ he continues and Draco can’t help but smile.  
  
‘Long lay the world, in sin and error pining,’ Harry sings, but he is no longer singing alone. From behind, he hears the voice of Hermione, adding her voice to his and now, around them the children are falling silent, listing to the beautiful melancholy of the melody and Draco finds himself spirited away by the story of someone coming to save everyone.   
  
‘Fall, on your knees,’ they sing and now Everly has joined them. The three of them don’t have the purest voices he has ever heard but they weave together beautifully, building to a crescendo   
  
The village hall is in sight when the song comes to an end but Draco doesn’t really remember walking there, wrapped up as he is in the impromptu performance and the kind act by his friend. Silence falls, and it feels like no-one knows quite what to say.   
  
Luckily, Everly is not the type to stand on ceremony and she breaks into a round of applause that is quickly picked up by the students.   
  
‘Lovely,’ she enthuses, ‘just lovely, that has to be my favourite carol. Thank you for that, Harry.’   
  
‘It’s mine, too,’ Harry says, looking slightly uncomfortable with the praise. Luckily, she quickly moves on to praising Hermione, giving Harry a chance to lean closer, close enough for Draco to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.  
  
‘Is seven a better number?’ he asks, genuinely curious.  
  
‘Harry,’ Draco says with a grin. ‘Seven is the best number.’


	4. part four

# Prompt #4 - a cosy window seat

# Friday 4th December, 1998

# ~Friends are the Family we Choose~

 

It is mid-morning when the owl finds Draco and he knows immediately that the letter is from his mother. The owls from her never turn up with the rest of the post owls at breakfast and, instead, turn up whenever they feel like it, interrupting what he is doing, be it lessons or sleeping, and demand his attention and treats. He supposes he can’t blame them; they have flown across the North Sea to reach him, after all. If he’d done something that impressive he imagines that he would be a bit of a diva about it, too.

 

Professor Sprout looks irritated as the bird rests on his shoulder, demanding treats until he unburdens it, when what he should be doing is pruning back the exploding blackberry bushes that line the drive. Neville, who is working nearby, smiles indulgently and offers the histrionic bird an owl treat from his pocket. The owl takes it, flicks its long ears importantly, and swoops off in the direction of the Owlery.

 

Draco tucks the letter inside his robes, offers an apologetic smile to Professor Sprout and turns his attention back the spiky woody trails of bramble that they are supposed to be clearing out.

 

It isn’t until after lunch that he has chance to sit and look at his letter. He has a free period and normally, he would spend it with Harry, ensconced in the Library as they just try to keep up with their vast amounts of homework. This close to the Christmas holidays, however, it seems acceptable to let the whole thing slide, and besides, Harry has offered to help Hagrid with a fire for the salamanders and has left him to his own devices.

 

Deciding to do the thing properly, he heads down to the kitchens to gather tea and biscuits before heading to his favourite window seat in the common room, the one with the circular window and the big squashy cushions.

 

He places the heavy cream parchment of his mother’s letter on his lap for a moment as he wraps both hands around his steaming mug, enjoying the sting of hot ceramic against his frozen fingers. From his position, he has a perfect view over the grounds, down to Hargid’s hut, and there he can see the tall fire burning brightly and Harry dashing around, throwing on more and more of the dried brambles they had cleared earlier, the fire appearing brighter and brighter as the sun slowly begins to sink away behind the mountains.

 

Finally, when he has finished one cup of tea and his biscuits he pours himself another and turns his attention to his letter, breaking his mother’s seal and unfolding the parchment.

 

_Dear Draco,_

 

_I hope you are well and attending diligently to your studies. I know, of course, that you will be, you have always been such a good boy, but I am a mother and it is my duty to ask these things._

 

_I am well and am enjoying my time in Sweden. I don’t know if you remember my cousin’s house from when we visited when you were small, but it is rather different to that which we have become accustomed, being neither manor house set in verdant country, nor tumbledown guest house near the sea._

 

_Here, we are in the forests, a house in the trees, not far from the town of Luleá but still rather remote. The way of life here is simple. There is not much to do now that the snow lays thick upon the ground, and I find myself reading to fill my days. I think the peace and the solitude are doing me good, Draco._

 

_The last few years have been so trying, never knowing what to do for the best, never knowing if all I hold dear might be taken from me. And then, last year, being in the constant company of one who is prepared to blame all and sundry for his errors rather than looking in the mirror, well, I have to say that I bear the solitude very well._

 

_That is not to say that I do not miss you, my wonderful boy, but, perhaps, we will all appreciate one another a little more when reunited as a result of this separation, and if others are neglectful in this regard, perchance we will show their conceit more forbearance._

 

_I will be sad, of course, not to see you for Christmas this year, and feel no small amount of shame for causing you to experience this solitude by honouring my own desires, but I promise, there will be many more Christmases to make up for it, and now that you are surrounded by new and good friends, I urge you to seek out new experiences and see what this holiday may offer you when not ruled by appearance for appearance’s sake._

 

_I look forward to hearing from you of, course; as much as I am appreciating the quiet, a letter from you is always a delightful change of pace. I look forward to hearing tales of how Hogwarts has recovered and moved on, and how you have done the same now that you have finally been given the chance to flourish and become your own man, a journey I believe you began nearly two years ago when you had the courage to do what your father never did, the courage to stand up and say, ‘no!’_

 

_I hope to hear from you soon, take care of yourself and please accept my best wishes for the coming festive season._

 

_All my love,_

 

_Mother_

 

 

Draco smiles to himself as he folds his mother’s letter. She sounds well, she sounds positive and he can hear her dry humour running through the lines of the letter—humour Draco doesn’t remember the last time he heard. His mother has changed so much since Lucius began his five year sentence in Azkaban. She has taken control of her life in a way that Draco had never expected of her, first deciding not to return to the Manor, then choosing to seek solitude with Scandinavian relatives.

 

She hasn’t, as far as he is aware, visited Lucius in the six months since he began his internment, nor does she plan to change that anytime soon, and he is proud of her and delighted as he watches his mother emerge from the cold shell of a woman she had been forced to become.

 

He can’t help but feel sad, however, that he will not see her over Christmas. Not that he doesn’t understand, and she is right of course, there will be many more Christmases to come, but for purely selfish reasons, he can’t see his Christmas being particularly thrilling if he remains alone at Hogwarts. Maybe he should follow his mother’s example and claim this window seat for the foreseeable future and catch up on his reading.

 

The door to the common room creaks and Draco looks up sharply, dragged from his thoughts and surprised to notice that the grounds are now dark and bathed in moonlight, with the salamander fire burning low. Harry, still wrapped in his heavy coat, approaches the window seat, bringing with him the smell of frost and radiating cold that feels delicious against Draco’s warm skin.

 

‘You alright?’ he asks, shedding his coat and dragging a chair close to the window, touching the back of his fingers to the teapot hopefully. In vain, Draco thinks, there isn’t a chance that the tea is anything other than stone cold and over-stewed by now.

 

‘I’m fine,’ he reassures, flicking aside the hair that has fallen into his eyes, but Harry has fixed him with that piercing look that means he doesn’t believe him and Draco knows he’s going to end up sharing his anxieties sooner or later. He might as well be upfront about it.

 

‘Letter from my mother,’ he explains holding up the letter to show Harry. ‘Just telling me how much she is enjoying the frozen forests of the North and how she’s sad that she won’t see me for Christmas this year.’

 

‘Are you staying here?’ Harry asks surprised.

 

‘Well, I shan’t be going back to the Manor, that’s for certain,’ he says, not wanting to sound disparaging, but doing so anyway. ‘You’re away to the Weasleys’, I imagine?’

 

‘Eventually, but not until the twentieth,’ Harry smiles. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

 

‘How come?’ Draco asks, and then realising the veiled and unintentional insult he adds, ‘you know what I mean.

 

‘At least someone does,’ Harry teases lightly. ‘Well, for a start, Ron and Hermione won’t get back from Australia until the twentieth and, as much as I love the rest of the family, I would feel a little bit awkward being there without them. Also, I promised to help McGonagall with something,’ Harry adds.

 

‘Other than the Christingle thing?’ Draco asks and Harry nods, his expression a little more sombre.

 

‘There are a lot more people staying for Christmas this year, a lot more students with nowhere else to go,’ Harry points out. ‘They’re going to have a harder time than most this Christmas and it was suggested that, once term’s finished, we put on some activities, things to try and keep their spirits up,’ he explains and Draco smiles sadly. He hadn’t even thought of how horrible it must be for all those who suddenly have nowhere to go at Christmas.

 

‘So, where do I sign up?’ he asks, and immediately he is suffused with a sense of purpose. Okay, so this Christmas might be a little different from those of his past but surely that can only be a good thing.


	5. part five

**Prompt #5 - a peacock feather**

**Saturday December 5th 1998**  
 **~Something Ostentatious~**  
  
Draco turns the page of _Most Potente Potions_ , the thick, parchment pages making a satisfying sound in the near-silent library and wafting the scent of damp and leather along with the faint smoky smell from the hundreds of cauldrons it has sat alongside.   
  
He makes a note of the vanishing solution before moving on, relishing the novelty of being able to use a Restricted Section book without Madame Pince hovering over him for a change. It seems her lack of patrons has had a strange effect on the authoritarian librarian and she has retreated behind her desk with a cup of tea and what appears to be a romance novel.  
  
The shriek of an over-excited child echoes up the main stairs and makes it way into the library, and both he and Madame Pince look up, staring almost accusingly at the door before returning to their tasks. The shriek is just a reminder for Draco of how nice it is not to be limited to specific weekends to visit the village. Today is not only the Hogsmeade weekend for the lower years, it is also the last Saturday before the end of term. As such, it will be full to bursting with over-excited and over-sugared children and will be an absolute nightmare.  
  
The library door creaks open. Madame Pince looks around sharply, making to hide her book and tea, but when she notices it’s just Harry, she returns to her book and, to Draco’s amazement, offers him the tiniest of smiles.  
  
‘There you are,’ Harry says, sounding relieved as he drops into the seat opposite Draco.  
  
‘Here I am,’ Draco agrees, setting down his quill. ‘Where did you expect me to be?’  
  
‘I thought you might be going to Hogsmeade,’ Harry suggests, and Draco looks at him askance.  
  
‘The entire population of the school is going to be pouring into that tiny village, which I can visit at any time. Why would I go today of all days?’  
  
‘I thought you might be getting your secret santa gift,’ Harry suggests.  
  
‘Don’t be ridiculous; I’m not an idiot. The gift giving is tomorrow; I bought my present weeks ago,’ Draco scoffs, and then, slowly, he looks up at Harry, horrified. ‘You haven’t bought yours yet, have you?’  
  
‘No,’ Harry admits sheepishly, handing his head in what Draco hopes is shame, but really, he suspects is some sort of ploy. Some feigned attempt at contrition to guilt-trip Draco into joining him on his insane outing.  
  
‘Well, you are on your own, I’m afraid,’ Draco insists, turning back to his book. He is not going to let Harry talk him into this, he’s just not. Hogsmeade is going to be horrific, and besides, he thinks, looking out of the high windows at the portentous blanket of white cloud, it looks like it’s going to snow.  
  
‘Oh, come on, Draco, please? I really need your help. I don’t have the first clue of what to buy,’ Harry begs, but Draco feels not even the tiniest twinge of remorse.  
  
‘I would have been happy to help you two weeks ago,’ Draco points out. ‘But now? Absolutely not. You’re the impulsive fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants Gryffindor, you sort it out.’  
  
‘I’ll tell her,’ Harry says, suddenly changing tack. There is a mischievous twinkle in his eye that Draco doesn’t like the look of. ‘I’ll tell her that you refused to help me.’  
  
‘Who will you tell?’ Draco asks warily.  
  
‘Pansy,’ Harry says with a smirk, and Draco’s stomach drops. ‘When she unwraps a misshapen, hand-made, red woollen scarf tomorrow, I will tell her that you refused to help me.’  
  
‘You wouldn’t; it would be against the secret santa rules,’ Draco challenges, but he knows, even as he says it, that it wouldn’t matter anyway. Pansy would find out who had gifted her such a horrible garment and she would hold Draco accountable for not intervening.  
  
‘Maybe not,’ Harry concedes, ‘but do you think it’s worth the risk? When she gets pissed off it will be you that has to suffer, not me.’  
  
‘Well played, Potter,’ Draco sighs, resigned as he snaps his book shut and begins to gather up his things. ‘Fine, I will brave the rabid hordes of Hogsmeade to help you, but on one condition.’  
  
‘Name it,’ Harry grins, flushed with victory. His grin is infectious and, against his better judgement, Draco starts to smile.  
  
‘Lunch is on you!’  
  
  
  
Draco stumbles against the shelves for what he is certain must be the hundredth time as a young hoodlum strides past as if he’s not there.   
  
‘Oh no, please, after you,’ he mutters grumpily under his breath, glaring at the back of a dark head as it disappears in to the crowd. It doesn’t seem to matter that the shops are so ram-packed full of people that moving just ten paces can take a good five minutes and result in more bruises than a game of Australian Rules Quidditch, these students seem to think they are the only ones in the world.  
  
‘Who are you talking to? Harry asks, reappearing at his side.   
  
‘Oh, just one of the many imbecilic little twerps who think that they are the only people who have Christmas shopping to do,’ he rants, fed up and desperate to be out of this insanely warm bookshop.   
  
The press of bodies is beginning to get too much for him and, if he doesn’t get out of here soon, he’s just about ready to start hexing people. He looks down and notices that Harry’s hands are still empty. ‘Did they not have it?’ he asks, and Harry shakes his head.   
  
‘Sold out,’ Harry says apologetically.   
  
‘Right then, Plan B,’ Draco says with a sigh. He knew that Pansy had wanted the biography of that spiky headed musician but now he’s going to have to come up with something else.  
  
‘Do we have a Plan B?’ Harry asks, forced to raise his voice to be heard above the clamour.  
  
‘I think, right now, Plan B should focus on getting out of this shop alive,’ he points out. He manages to squeeze himself past a couple of people, but, when he looks back Harry hasn’t moved, apparently unwilling to push his way through. With an exasperated sigh, Draco reaches back through the crowd and catches Harry’s hand, his fingers closing around the warm dry skin, and he can’t help but feel a little thrill when Harry grips back.  
  
Renewed, Draco pushes forward, pulling Harry behind them and he weaves, dodges and forces his way to the front. He is just reaching out to pull open the door when the bell above it chimes again and it swings open to reveal four more potential customers who immediately try to come inside.  
  
‘Oh, come on, now,’ Draco explodes, his barely-held-together patience snapping. ‘Is it really too much to ask that you use a modicum of common sense?’ he snaps at the little knot of students. ‘There is no space in here, you cannot fit. If you wait for two minutes, we will leave, and you can cram yourselves into this crush, it that is what you wish to do.’  
  
Chastened, the students bustle to the side, allowing Draco and Harry to exit the oppressively hot, claustrophobic shop.   
  
The cool air feels fantastic and Draco drinks it in as Harry carefully extricates himself, smiling apologetically at the students.  
  
‘I have no idea why I agreed to do this,’ Draco insists, fixing Harry with his most unimpressed gaze.   
  
‘I will admit, if I’d known it was going to be like this, I would have done this last week,’ Harry says, scratching apologetically at the back of his head.  
  
‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,’ Draco says, breathing slowly and trying not to snap something rude and unhelpful at Harry, choosing instead to start again down the main street.  
  
‘So, what is Plan B?’ Harry asks, succinctly dropping the subject. ‘Is Pansy going to be getting one of my scarves after all?’  
  
‘Can you really knit?’ Draco asks, distracted from what he was about to say by the second mention of this strange hobby.  
  
‘Define _really_ ,’ Harry says, wrinkling his nose and peering through the steamed-up window of Honeydukes at the press of students inside; there are so many, in fact, that they are spilling out onto the icy cobbles. ‘I hope Plan B doesn’t involve sweets,’ he adds.  
  
‘Getting Pansy the sort of sweets she enjoys would take you well over the two Galleon limit, and besides, Honeydukes doesn’t stock them,’ Draco points out, thinking about the French artisan chocolates which he had been forced to provide for her semi-regularly in order to maintain her co-operation in the attempt to fool his father. ‘And what do you mean, define really?’ Draco asks. ‘Either you can knit or you can’t.’  
  
‘That’s what you think,’ Harry says darkly. ‘Hermione showed me the process, but I keep ending up with a different number of stitches. The last scarf I made looked like it had been attacked by hyperactive rodents.’  
  
‘Huh,’ Draco says, catching sight of something bright in a shop window.   
  
‘So, what are we going to get Pansy?’ Harry asks again, and now he’s starting to sound slightly panicked.  
  
‘Something ostentatious,’ Draco insists, catching Harry by the shoulder and pointing into the window of Scrivenshafts, where a beautiful peacock feather quill lies on a navy cushion.  
  
‘A quill?’ Harry asks, sounding surprised. ‘Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, a bit practical?’  
  
‘Pansy loves beautiful things, she likes to be surrounded by the best of everything. When she uses a quill, it will be a beautiful quill.’  
  
Harry shrugs, ‘If you’re sure.’   
  
‘I’m sure,’ Draco insists, sighing with relief. ‘Right, you go and buy that and then you can take me to lunch,’ Draco instructs, thinking fondly of Madame Rosmerta’s spiced mead. ‘And you’d better hope the Broomsticks has started serving filet mignon as that’s the only way you’re making this up to me.’  
  
  
  
  
  
The Three Broomsticks is more packed than Draco can ever remember seeing it, but Harry has clearly come armed with a plan as he leads Draco through the crowds towards the oversized Christmas tree in the corner. Draco is a little surprised when Harry seems to disappear behind it, but he follows and discovers a large table set into an alcove.   
  
  
‘How did you even know that this was here?’Draco asks, trying to judge which seat will give him the best protection from the dark green, spiky branches.   
  
  
‘Hermione moved the tree to hide it back in third year, and ever since, Rosmerta has put it back in the same place. It’s like she thought it had always been there, hiding one of the tables,’ Harry says, straining to look around at the chalk board where the day’s specials are written in a neat script.  
  
  
‘You know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually eaten in here,’ Draco says, as he considers the various charms of game pie over Rosmerta’s specialty sausages and mash.  
  
  
‘It’s good,’ Harry reassures, ‘not fancy or anything,’ he says, looking back at Draco. ‘Probably nothing like what you’re used to, but it’s tasty. Do you know what you want?’  
  
  
Draco sighs, ‘For nine months of the year I eat exactly the same things you do, you idiot. I don’t only eat quails eggs and caviar, you know. I like sausages as much as the next man. Though, today I think I’ll have the game pie,’ Draco says, choosing the more expensive of the two dishes. After all, if Harry is going to make wild assumptions then he needs to learn to pay the price, and in this case, the price is a full three Sickles more.   
  
  
Shuffling out from behind the tree, Harry heads up to the bar to place their orders. Draco watches as he chats warmly with Madam Rosmerta, though he cannot hear what they are saying. Around him, the pub is loud and he hears various snatches of conversation from the myriad children who have retreated from the cold to warm their hands on a Butterbeer and discuss their purchases.  
  
  
‘Do you really think he’ll like this colour...?’ ‘I just haven’t got the first clue what to buy...’ and then, closer, a voice he recognises, ‘Would you like to buy me a drink?’  
  
  
The words stick in his head; the voice is young, very young, but the words, the delivery, they seem much, much older. Curious, Draco attempts to peer through the branches of the tree but the sparkling lights make impossible to identify the girl and when Harry slips back into his seat and pushes a glass of mulled cider towards him, he lets the incongruity slip from his mind.  
  
  
It is only when they get up to leave, warm and full of excellent food, that Draco hears the voice again, and now without the Christmas tree in the way, he turns to look.   
  
  
Sitting at a table on the other side of the tree, are a couple of surly looking young wizards, and there, squashed between them, leaning in to whisper something to one of them is the girl from the Christingle service.  
  
  
‘Harry,’ Draco hisses, tugging on Harry’s sleeve and pulling him back until they are once again hidden by the Christmas tree. ‘It’s that girl, the one who was in my group for the service.’  
  
  
‘It can’t be,’ Harry says dismissively. ‘They were all first and second years, they aren’t allowed in Hogsmeade.’  
  
  
Draco looks at Harry, unsure whether he is serious or not. He appears entirely genuine and all Draco can do is raise an eyebrow and shake his head in disbelief.  
  
  
‘Well, then, it’s obviously impossible for her to be here, because no one has ever snuck into Hogsmeade when they shouldn’t, have they?’ he asks pointedly.  
  
  
Harry at least has the good grace to look abashed as he peers around the edge of the Christmas tree, trying to get sight of her.  
  
  
‘You’re right,’ he says, though he still sounds a little more surprised that Draco would really like. Harry wrinkles his nose. ‘What was her name?’ he asks. ‘I remember the friend, Crystal, she smelled like a barrel of fizzing whizzbees.’  
  
  
‘Lucy,’ Draco declares, the name springing to his tongue as he remembers thinking of how she has reminded him of a mini Pansy from the very first moment he saw her, and how flirting shamelessly with some much older boys is doing nothing to alter the similarity.  
  
  
‘So, what are we going to do?’ Draco asks and Harry shrugs.  
  
  
‘Buggered if I know.’  
  
  
‘Well, aren’t you a helpful person to have around? We can’t just leave her there, we’ll have to take her back up to the school with us.’   
  
  
‘You think she’ll just leave because we ask her?’ Harry asks sceptically.  
  
  
‘I have the horrible feeling that she will go anywhere I ask her to, which just proves her judgement is not to be trusted.’ With a sigh, Draco steps around the tree and right up to the table where Lucy is draped suggestively over one of the boys.   
  
  
‘Lucy,’ he says, clearing his throat and shifting awkwardly as Lucy’s eyes slide to him and she immediately shuffles away from the boy.   
  
  
‘Malfoy,’ the boy growls and, though Draco has no idea who he is, he is not surprised he has been recognised; he is nothing if not distinctive looking, after all.  
  
  
‘Lucy, I would like you to come with us,’ Draco says firmly, and Lucy is already struggling to her feet when the boy scowls.  
  
  
‘What if she doesn’t want to go with you?’ he asks, placing a possessive hand on Lucy’s arm, which she immediately tries to shake off, a look of panic settling on her face.  
  
  
Behind him, Draco hears Harry step out from where he had been concealed up until now.  
  
  
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he growls in a voice that sends a little shiver down Draco’s spine. ‘She’s twelve years old.’  
  
  
The boy looks thunderstruck at the sight of Harry and starts muttering excuses about not knowing, about her approaching them, but Draco isn’t listening; he is watching as Lucy extracts herself from the situation with a lot less enthusiasm than she had moments before, a look of dread on her face.   
  
  
As Draco ushers her out into the chilly street, she hangs her head.  
  
  
‘I’m going to be in trouble, aren’t I?’ she asks.  
  
  
‘Not necessarily,’ Harry offers, ‘providing we can sneak you back into the castle without any of the teachers noticing. Follow me,’ he insists and leads them off in the opposite direction to the castle.  
  
  
‘Why aren’t you turning me in?’ she asks, confused.  
  
  
‘We’ve all broken the rules and done stupid things before, it’s how we learn,’ Draco says wearily. ‘Of course, if we ever catch you doing anything like this again, we will have to tell McGonagall,’ Draco adds as Harry leads them up the path to the Shrieking Shack.  
  
  
‘Though it would be better if you just didn’t do it again whether or not there’s a chance you might get caught,’ Harry says. ‘You put yourself in a lot of danger doing that.’  
  
  
Lucy looks at Draco with an eyebrow raised and expression which clearly asks, ‘who’s he kidding?’  
  
  
Draco fights to suppress a smile. ‘As hypocritical as it sounds, coming from him, he is right. If you’re going to do something stupid and dangerous, you should at least have some friends with you to watch your back.’  
  
  
‘Why did you want to do it in the first place?’ Harry asks, holding open the door to the shack and allowing them to enter before him.  
  
  
‘I just wanted to have some fun before I went home for Christmas,’ she insists with a finality that tells Draco that there won’t be any more from her on the subject, and, as they walk quietly down the damp earth-scented passage and emerge from the roots of the Whomping Willow, Draco can’t help wondering whether it might not have been the best idea ever to allow Lucy to get away with her transgression. He is certain that she hasn’t yet finished causing trouble.


	6. part six

# Prompt #6 - a decorated tree

# Sunday 6th December, 1998

# -Secret Santa-

 

The common room is bright and warm with laughter as the eighth-years begin to gather for the gift-giving on Sunday evening. Draco settles himself in a corner, some way away from the lavishly decorated tree, and watches. Harry, the man who has been unanimously voted as the distributer of gifts, lowers himself awkwardly onto the floor at the foot of the tree. Draco watches as Harry reaches out to stroke his fingers over a silver satin ribbon tied around a dark blue package. He watches as the rest of the year gravitate into a semi-circle around Harry, many patting his shoulder affectionately as they pass. He watches as Theo Nott pulls Hannah Abbott into a large leather armchair alongside him, in a pairing that would have been unthinkable just two years ago.

 

Two years ago, Draco had been close to breaking point, what with the pressure of protecting his family, his mission from Voldemort, and Harry following him everywhere he went, hoping to catch him out. He knows now that he had begun to accept the fact that he would never be free.

 

He still doesn’t know what magic was at work that night, what inspired Harry to sneak into the hospital wing, what had made Draco willing to listen for a change, but in retrospect, he can’t help but feel that there is no such thing as a perfect storm and there must have been other forces at work.

 

Since then, of course, things have just become stranger and stranger. Harry didn’t just pull him out of danger and walk away. No, instead he befriended Draco, supported him as best he could during Draco’s year in hiding and Harry’s year on the run and, when everything returned to some approximation of normality, the hostility was gone and instead, he found himself with a somewhat scruffy shadow.

 

At first, he had thought that it was the result of pity. That Harry Potter simply felt sorry for him. After all, what else could it be? Harry was far from friendless; everyone wanted to be friends with the saviour. Draco, naturally unimpressed at the idea that Harry felt sorry for him, had called him out on it.

 

_‘If it’s not pity, Potter, then what is it? Why do you suddenly want to be my friend so badly?’ Draco had asked, as they had worked together in the blistering July sunshine to repair the greenhouses and replant the vegetable beds. ‘Or do you just not trust me? Are you trying to keep an eye on me?’ he had asked bitterly._

 

_‘It’s nothing like that, Draco,’ Harry had said, leaning heavily on his spade to lower his frame to the ground and fixing Draco with the kind of earnest look that only Harry Potter could manage._

 

_‘No?’ Draco had all but snarled, entrenched as he was in a defensive position, ‘Please do enlighten me then.’_

 

_‘Because you treat me normally,’ Harry had admitted, reaching up to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck in something of a nervous gesture. ‘Everyone else, it’s like I went away for a year and came back someone else and no one seems to remember who I was before, except for you, of course. You treat me the same.’_

 

_‘I hope that’s not true,’ Draco had said, feeling slightly embarrassed at the admission and, at the same time, elated. So much so that, in his shock, he had leaned against the greenhouse for support and burnt his arm on the metal frame._

 

_‘Maybe not,’ Harry had admitted. ‘But you don’t treat me like the Chosen One. To you, I’m just Harry.’_

 

_He had sat there on the baking earth, looking sheepishly up at Draco, hair sticking to his forehead, with a streak of dirt furnishing one cheek and, in that moment, everything had changed._

 

_From that moment they had become the best of friends. Of course Ron and Hermione would always have a special place in Harry’s life, but they had each other now, and Harry had Draco._

 

Draco shudders slightly at the thought, a pleasant feeling twisting in the pit of his stomach and making him squirm slightly.

 

On the other side of the room, Harry has begun distributing the secret santa gifts and Draco watches, amused as his fellow eighth-years embrace McGonagall’s message on inter-house unity and laugh and joke together as shiny paper is torn and cast aside and cheap, unusual, and occasionally, gently mocking gifts are unwrapped.

 

He watches as Seamus reveals a pair of safety goggles which appear to have been given by Theodore, if the smug expression on his face is any indication. He watches as Pansy unwraps the hard-found quill and he shares a secretly delighted look with Harry as she turns it this way and that in the light, clearly delighted. He watches as Harry tears silver wrappings off of a navy t-shirt which he unfurls to reveal the slogan ‘I’m the Chosen One, ask me how’ in inch high letters. Ron opens a box which turns out to contain a selection of bacon scented toiletries and Draco can’t help but raise an eyebrow when he pulls the paper off a rather squashy package that turns out to contain a thick pair of scarlet woollen socks which play Jingle Bells when you pull them up.

 

‘They look like they’re right up your street, Draco,’ Ron guffaws next to Harry and, in a moment of petulance, Draco tugs them on, filling the room with the tinny little tune.

 

Neville roars with laughter and gives Ron a good-hearted shove that would send someone of a lesser frame into the fire. Ron, however, just raises his Butterbeer in a good-natured salutation.

 

‘ _Dashing through the snow,_ ’ Ron begins, singing along with Draco’s socks in a powerful but not necessarily tuneful baritone. Gradually, others begin to join in, each in their own key and at their own tempo, until everyone, himself included, is joining in with the high-spirited cacophony.

 

From across the room, Harry grins at him, and Draco’s stomach forms a complicated little flip of appreciation. He thinks back to his conversation with Blaise. ‘Does he know?’ Blaise had asked him. Draco is certain he doesn’t but there are times, like this one, when Harry looks straight to him, as if they alone share some small inside joke, that he can almost pretend that he does.

 

He can pretend that Harry knows about his little crush and is okay with it. When he’s feeling particularly whimsical he can even pretend that it is reciprocated. That they are a couple, that they have a future together beyond Hogwarts.

 

‘Are you alright?’

 

The soft voice from somewhere to his left startles Draco and he snaps out of his pleasant daydream, looking around frantically for the source of the interruption.

 

He must have been thoroughly lost in his thoughts, because Hermione has managed to extricate herself from the others, who are now giving a rather spirited rendition of ‘Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer’, and made her way over to Draco’s chair without him noticing.

 

‘Fine, thanks,’ he mutters with a tight smile and, in an attempt to appear normal, he takes a gulp of tea which turns out to be stone cold, causing him to wrinkle his nose at the unpleasant shock.

 

‘Uh-huh,’ Hermione says, sounding unconvinced. ‘You seemed lost in thought,’ she tries again, and this time the observation is accompanied by a less than subtle look in Harry’s direction.

 

Draco frowns, irritated that he has been caught staring dreamily at his best friend, and even more irritated that he can’t immediately think of smooth lie which would account for his mooning expression.

 

Hermione isn’t interested in waiting for him to come up with a lie, however, and she leans close so as not to be overheard. ‘I’m not going to push,’ she insists, quietly enough so that only Draco can hear her. ‘But should you ever want to talk, you should know I’m a good listener. I don’t judge and I would never repeat anything you told me to anyone, not even Harry,’ she points out significantly.

 

With that, she turns away, snatching a couple of bottles of Butterbeer from the table and heading back into the fray.

 

Draco sits there, suddenly aware of how warm the common room is and certain that the is reason why his cheeks feel so warm. It definitely has nothing to do with how perceptive Hermione might or might not be. Slowly, he begins to regain his equilibrium. Why would he want to talk to Hermione about it anyway? It would just make things more awkward. He knows about his feelings for Harry, but if she knows about it, too, he’ll just be hyper aware of it any time they’re all together and that just won’t work.

 

No, he will keep this to himself; he is an expert at masking his feelings, after all. He doesn’t need any help


	7. part seven

# Prompt #7 - fish in or on a teacup

# Monday 7th December, 1998

# -In Camellia Sinensis Veritas-

 

Draco needs help.

 

When he wakes early on Monday morning, he is hot and sticky, his sheets and blankets are tangled around his legs and his hair is plastered to his head. The dream still pervades his senses and he can smell Harry everywhere, can taste him on his tongue. He closes his eyes in an attempt to pull his breathing under control and immediately they snap open again as he is assaulted by images of smooth olive skin and flashing green eyes.

 

Freeing himself from the sheets, he scrambles for the jug next to the window and pours himself a tall glass of ice cold water. He drinks it greedily, relishing the cooling path it trails. It is still dark outside, and the moon bathes the grounds in its pale cold light, causing the frost on the grass to sparkle as though encrusted with glitter.

 

In the dark, he reaches for his wand and casts a quick _Tempus_. It is about ten to seven, he is irritated to discover. He has no chance of going back to sleep now, and even if he did, he’d need to be awake again in twenty minutes anyway.

 

Trying not to mourn his lost twenty minutes too hard, Draco slopes off to the bathroom, relishing the possibility of showering in peace for a change. A day without Finnigan’s discordant singing, without Ron prattling on about that infernal Quidditch team, without the all-pervasive stench of cheap body spray, is worth the sacrifice of twenty minutes. Especially when the alternative is fidgeting around in bed, listening to other people snoring and becoming more and more irritated as the minutes tick by.

 

Kicking off his sticky pyjamas, Draco turns the shower as hot as it will go and steps into the spray. He sucks in his breath in a sharp hiss as the near-scalding water sluices over his body and soaks his hair. He tips his head back into the spray and wills the hot water to wash away the last of his dream, but the memory of it seems unsettlingly tenacious.

 

He feels like he is coming apart at the seams. He has been holding onto the control of this little crush for over six months now and it has only been in the last few days that he has felt himself becoming unravelled and struggling to keep hold of his denial. He thinks that the whole thing must be Blaise’s fault. This sort of this is usually Blaise’s fault, but today, even blaming his oldest friend doesn’t seem to alleviate his agitation.

 

Maybe he does need to talk to someone about it after all. Maybe if he were to sit down and discuss it, like the adult everyone keeps telling him he is, it would help him to get a little perspective; maybe it would help him to get a grip. But who does he confide in? He can’t go to Theo, he would be even more useless in this situation than Draco is; besides, Theo is in the first throes of romance and will be feeling uncharacteristically naive and optimistic. No doubt he’ll just tell Draco to go for it. He can’t tell Pansy either, unless it’s something that he is happy for everyone in the school to know, from the shyest first year to Mr Norris and Filch.

 

He knows who the obvious choice is, the person who has clearly already noticed, who is discreet, and who has already offered herself as a sounding board. The real question is, is he really at the point where he can share this kind of confidence with Hermione? He thinks of her as friend these days, there is no doubt about that, but he’s not sure that they have yet passed the position of friends by proxy.

 

He is friends with Harry, they are friends with Harry, therefore he is friends with them, but are they friends in their own right? Then again, he thinks, that kind of friendship doesn’t happen just by accident. It takes someone being willing to make the first move, to reach across the gulf of polite familiarity and put a little trust in each other.

 

Sighing, Draco leans his forehead against the cold tiles and inhales deeply, breathing in the lemon-scented steam that surrounds him, and trying to calm the nervous little flutter in his stomach. He knows what he’s going to do; he’s going to take Hermione up on her offer, and he’s pretty certain that, on some level, he has known this since she first offered. The only question now is when they are going to be able to get some time to themselves without raising everyone’s suspicions.

 

 

Draco can’t believe his luck when an opportunity presents itself that very afternoon.

 

‘What do you want to do tonight?’ he asks Harry as he selects a particularly crunchy looking piece of toad-in-the-hole at dinner that night. ‘Because I can tell you, I’m not doing homework two days before the end of term.’

 

Harry looks at him apologetically and accepts the gravy from Draco when it is offered. ‘I’ve got the DA tonight,’ he says, affecting a little shrug of apology. ‘I promised them if they managed to perfect their shield charms, I’d teach them _Levicorpus_ before the holiday. I’ve even got Ron coming along to help me demonstrate because the knee isn’t feeling too clever today.’

 

Draco tries not to let his enthusiasm show on his face. As much as he doesn’t want Harry to find out about his feelings, Draco also doesn’t want him to think that he just doesn’t want him around anymore. Still, with Harry and Ron managing the over-excited DA group for two hours, he has the perfect opportunity to try to talk to Hermione.

 

‘Oh, well,’ Draco sighs, trying to sound neither too relieved nor too put out, ‘I guess I’ll see what Pansy’s up to,’ he suggests, knowing full well that tonight Pansy has a not-too-secret engagement with one of Patil girls, though he can’t for the life of him remember which one. To be fair, knowing Pansy, it could well be both.

 

 

‘Is there any chance I could trade you some tea for some advice?’ Draco asks, holding up the teapot demonstratively as he approaches the little alcove in which Hermione has managed to hide herself away.

 

‘I’ll never say no to tea, Draco,’ she smiles, lowering the beaten up old paperback that she had been reading.

 

‘What are you reading?’ he asks, settling in the deep, wing-backed armchair and lifting the lid from the teapot to give it a stir.

 

‘ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,’ she says, leaning forward to place her teacup on the tray and Draco smiles as the goldfish painted on the delicate china swims around the outside expectantly. ‘It’s about a man who is too proud and a woman who thinks she’s always right and how they struggle to recognise the love they have for one another because they are both too stubborn.’

 

‘Are you, perhaps, trying to make a point?’ Draco asks, pouring the tea and watching as the little fish begins to splash and dart gleefully.

 

‘There are only so many plots in the world, Draco,’ she says, smiling coyly and retrieving her teacup.

 

Draco stares into his cup and ponders the possibility that all this has been written before. At first, he tries to dismiss it; after all, if you wish to, you can twist anything to fit the facts. He can’t quite convince himself of this, however, and he is forced to ask, ‘How does it end?’

 

‘They get there,’ she smiles.

 

Draco nods, but cannot think of anything to say in response to that. He can’t allow himself that kind of hope; that kind of hope is dangerous and could easily drive him mad, if it doesn’t just tear him apart. He sits silently, listening to the crackle of the fire and sipping his tea as minutes slip past. This had seemed like such a good idea just half an hour ago, and now? Now he can’t even look at her.

 

Eventually it is Hermione who manages to break the silence. ‘Draco, you said you wanted advice,’ she says, and her tone is gentle, reassuring.

 

‘I did, I just...’ he trails off, unsure how to end that sentence.

 

‘Do you want to tell Harry how you feel?’ Hermione asks and immediately Draco’s head snaps up.

 

‘ _No_ ,’ Draco insists vehemently.

 

‘Oh.’ Hermione sounds confused and disappointed, and Draco runs his fingers through his hair anxiously.

 

‘I can’t tell him how I feel, because then it will be weird,’ Draco tries to explain. Hermione’s brow creases into a frown, but thankfully she doesn’t interrupt him. If he’s going to say this, it’s probably best that he just gets it over with.

 

‘Harry is probably my best friend, and I never thought I would have a friend like him. He saved my life, for crying out loud. I hate to think where I would be now if he hadn’t taken a chance on me.’ Draco rubs his palms vigorously over his face, as though this will dislodge the difficult words somehow, and continues:

 

‘I guess, when you think about it, it’s hardly surprising that I’ve developed feelings for him, but I like to think I’m smart enough to see them for what they are. They’re destructive, because if he finds out I like him like that, he’ll start to act different around me, he won’t be able to help himself, he’ll be more careful around me and I’ll have spoiled everything.’

 

‘Oh, Draco,’ Hermione sighs sadly. ‘Can’t you see it?’ He’s crazy about you.’

 

‘I don’t think so, Hermione,’ Draco dismisses, feeling something in his chest leap with hope and immediately squashing it back down. ‘I don’t think I’m his type.’

 

Hermione looks at him askance for a moment as though unable to figure out his meaning, before her expression shifts to one of pure scepticism.

 

‘Really?’ she asks in disbelief, and Draco is surprised by her tone.

 

‘Well, he’s had his fair share of girlfriends,’ Draco points out, feeling slightly defensive. ‘Parvati Patil, Ginny Weasley, Cho Chang, Luna.’

 

Hermione bursts out laughing, so hard in fact that she has to use both hands to replace her teacup on the table. ‘For a start, he never went out with Luna or Parvati,’ she giggles, ‘and secondly, what about Pansy?’

 

‘He didn’t go out with Pansy?!’ he exclaims, horrified.

 

‘No, but you did,’ she points out. ‘So you tell me how having a girlfriend at some point while you’re growing up means that you’re straight.

 

‘I take your point,’ Draco admits, frustrated at being out-manoeuvred so easily. ‘But Harry isn’t gay. I think if Harry were gay, I would know about it.’

 

Hermione looks at him, pained, as though struggling with a decision.

 

‘Harry is gay,’ she insists eventually. ‘He told me so himself.’

 

‘So why hasn’t said anything?’ Draco asks, frustrated.

 

‘I don’t know, Draco; I would have thought when you were having your big heart-to-heart, and you told him _you_ were gay, he’d have been eager to mention it to you,’ she says, tone dripping with sarcasm.

 

‘Oh, come on now, everyone knows _I’m_ gay,’ Draco scoffs, determined not to address the valid point that Hermione has made, and choosing instead to refute something else entirely. He knows that his diversionary tactic has no chance at all of succeeding, but what kind of Slytherin would he be if he didn’t at least try?

 

‘I didn’t, at least not until recently, and I can guarantee you that Harry doesn’t.’

 

‘How?’ he exclaims.

 

‘For the same reason that you’re having difficulty believing me. He thinks it would be wishful thinking,’ she explains gently, and then, without waiting for Draco to order his thoughts, she continues: ‘Look,’ she says, leaning forward so that her elbows rest on her knees and she looks directly into Draco’s eyes, ‘You came asking for advice, my advice is this: if you like Harry then go with it.’

 

‘Go with it?’ Draco asks, baffled.

 

‘What would you do if you liked anyone else?’ she asks but doesn’t pause for Draco to give her an answer. ‘You’d hang out with them, you flirt with them, you’d try to tell whether your feelings are reciprocated and, when you’re confident that they are, you make a move. Don’t treat Harry any differently to anyone else, Draco, because that’s served you well up until now. If it’s not right, or Harry doesn’t feel like that he won’t be weird with you... he’s something of an expert of maintaining comfortable friendships with exes by now. Not that I think you’re going to have to worry about that.’

 

‘That’s your advice?’ Draco asks, feeling slightly incredulous, ‘Flirt with Harry?’

 

‘That’s my advice,’ Hermione confirms.

 

Sighing and knowing that she is right, at least on some level, Draco drops his head into his hands and presses his cool fingers to his eyes.

 

‘Good grief,’ he mutters, ‘I’m doomed.’


	8. part eight

# Prompt #8 - a walk in the snow

# Tuesday, December 8th, 1998

# -The Unknown Road-

 

The Christmas holidays are here at last and the castle is full of high-spirited adolescents, scrabbling to pack all of their possessions into their trunks, ready for their journey home on the Hogwarts Express the following day.

 

Outside, however, all is still and quiet. The night has bought with it a blanket of snow which covers everything and seems to muffle the sound of their footsteps as Draco walks with Harry, Ron and Hermione down Hogwarts’ long drive.

 

As they walk they talk of the beaches and the ocean and the barbeques that will be awaiting Hermione and Ron in Australia, but they keep their voices low, as if concerned they will offend the winter with stories of sunshine and warmth.

 

The sunlight slants through the bare trees in yellow shafts, causing the snow to sparkle and Draco smiles at a chirpy little robin who alights on a tree branch with a joyful song and sends a shower of snow to the ground. Next to him, Harry looks at him with what he thinks could possibly be affection and Draco’s smile broadens further still.

 

It has been less than twenty-four hours since he promised himself that he would try to take Hermione’s advice, and it’s been hard. He has always felt that he has a tendency towards over-thinking things, but now he’s hyper-aware of the possible subtext of every single smile, or brush of fingers, this particular trait has gone into overdrive.

 

Hermione hasn’t helped matters, shooting Draco so many pointed looks that he has been forced to take her aside.

 

_‘He’s going to notice something’s up if you keep giving me significant looks,’ he had reasoned, while they waited for Harry and Ron to emerge from the dormitory._

 

_‘But you’re missing all the signs,’ Hermione had hissed._

 

_‘I assure you, I’m not, if that is indeed what they are. I’m picking up so many signs that I am no longer sure which way is up. If there are more that I am missing, I’ll just have to deal with that.’_

 

She had, thankfully, stopped the pointed looks and the not-so-sly elbows to the ribs after this but she is still watching every interaction between them so closely that Draco can’t help looking forward to the fact that she will shortly be on the other side of the world. Maybe then he won’t feel quite so self-conscious.

 

‘Are you alright? You seem a bit quiet,’ Harry says softly as Ron asks Hermione to tell him about the television for what Draco is certain must be the two-hundredth time.

 

‘I’m fine,’ he reassures, allowing his arm to brush against Harry’s as they walk side by side, and feeling unnaturally aware of the action.

 

‘It’s just occurred to me, though, that this will be my last Hogwarts Christmas. I thought I should savour the moment.’

 

‘I know,’ Harry agrees enthusiastically. ‘I can’t believe how quickly the time’s gone. It seems like only yesterday we were rebuilding the castle, and now...’ he trails off, looking around him with a funny sort of smile on his face, and they continue to walk in silence, arms brushing against each other occasionally as, out in front, Ron and Hermione continue to argue good-naturedly about how much of their week in Australia will be spent watching television.

 

Eventually the winged boars that flank the gates come into view and they make their way off Hogwarts land and away from the Anti-Apparition wards.

 

‘How long will it take you to get there?’ Draco asks, as they stand awkwardly at the side of the lane to say goodbye.

 

‘No more than a couple of hours,’ Hermione reassures, ‘and that’s just because the administration of the Polish International Portkey Office hasn’t been updated in the last four hundred years and I wasn’t able to sort any of it out in advance.’

 

‘Let’s get off, then,’ Ron all but bellows, obviously unnerved by the awkwardness. He pulls Harry into a rough hug and slaps Draco so hard on the shoulder that he feels himself sink a little further into the snow. ‘Don’t let the little buggers wear you out too much, and I’ll see you at home in a week.’

 

Hermione hugs Harry and Draco is surprised when he, too, suddenly has a face full of soft brown hair as she hugs him tightly. ‘Don’t forget the signs,’ she whispers urgently into his ear and, before Draco even has time to pat her awkwardly on the arm, she is stepping back, flashing him a bright smile, and she and Ron are Apparating away.

 

‘Is your shoulder alright?’ Harry asks him solicitously and Draco jumps slightly, surprised by the closeness of his voice.

 

‘Hmm? What?’ he asks, unsure what Harry is talking about.

 

‘The Weasley back-slap,’ Harry says, nodding towards Draco’s shoulder. ‘We’ve all been bruised by it before, it’s even been known to shatter bones on some occasions, but it’s only been fatal once,’ Harry says, as seriously as he can manage.

 

‘Well, I think I’ll live,’ Draco agrees, ‘but I don’t think I’ll ever use that arm again. He really doesn’t know his own strength, does he?’

 

‘None of them do, as you’ll discover to your cost next week,’ Harry says turning and beginning to make his way back up the drive. Draco, however, just stays where he is, certain that he must be missing something.

 

‘What’s next week?’ he asks, confused.

 

Ahead of him, Harry stops and turns back, a look of horror settling over his features.

 

‘I forgot to tell you!’ he exclaims, and brings his hands up to cover his face. ‘Shit, Draco, I’m so sorry!’ He looks really worried now and Draco takes a step towards him, hand outstretched as if calming a wild creature.

 

‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be fine,’ he reassures, wishing he felt as calm as his voice suggests.

 

‘Molly owled me on Sunday; she’s inviting you to the Burrow for Christmas. I was going to ask you Sunday night but with all the singing and the presents, it completely slipped my mind.’

 

‘She’s invited me? Draco asks, certain that Harry must have made a mistake.

 

‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,’ Harry insists, trying to look reassuring, but unable to hide his disappointment.

 

‘Don’t you think it would be a little strange?’ Draco asks, somewhat intrigued by the idea, but still quite wary.

 

‘Why would it be?’ Harry asks, stepping closer.

 

‘Well, because they’re Weasleys and I’m a Malfoy,’ Draco points out, just about resisting the temptation to add, ‘Obviously.’

 

‘No one cares about that any more, Draco,’ Harry says. ‘Especially after what happened with Fred.’

 

Draco squirms on the spot uncomfortably. It is true that the Weasleys had all been very grateful to him when Fred had related the story of falling masonry and the fortunately timed trip jinx which had prevented it from landing on top of him. Fred liked to tell everyone that it had saved his life, but then he had always been one to weave tall tales and embellish the truth, and Draco was sure that he would have come through it fine, with or without his trip jinx.

 

‘Look,’ Harry continues, obviously mistaking Draco’s awkwardness for indecision. ‘I admit that it won’t be the kind of Christmas you’re used to. It will be noisy and messy and chaotic. But I’d really like it if you’d come.’ He gives Draco a pleading look and he knows that even if he hadn’t wanted to say yes, he would have done so in that moment.

 

‘I would be delighted to join the Weasleys for Christmas,’ he concedes, allowing formality to hide some of his discomfort.

 

Harry grins broadly, and Draco grins back, caught by his enthusiasm.   
  
  
‘Brilliant, let’s get back up to the castle and I’ll owl Molly to let her know. She’ll be delighted to have another mouth to feed.’


	9. part nine

# Prompt #9 - a snowy train station

# Wednesday, December 9th, 1998

# -Behind the Mask-

 

‘That girl is staring at you again,’ Harry mutters to Draco as they await the carriages that will take the Hogwarts students who are heading home for the holidays down to Hogsmeade station. The heavy grey sky seems to promise more snow, as does the biting wind, and Draco huddles deeper into his coat, forcing his hands further into his pockets.

 

Draco looks around, trying to catch sight of the girl and, sure enough, there is Lucy, standing near the door and whispering with her friend, Crystal, if memory serves him correctly. He happens to be looking directly at them when Lucy throws another look in Draco’s direction and catches him. Immediately, the two girls burst into giggles.

 

Draco rolls his eyes as he looks back at Harry. ‘This is starting to get awkward,’ Draco insists, feeling himself flush a little.

 

‘Starting?’ Harry asks, with a raised eyebrow as the reptilian horses and their carriages rattle into view. ‘Surely the walk back the other day was awkward enough?’

 

‘I asked you never to speak of that again,’ Draco says darkly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Lucy and her friend seem to hang back, apparently with the intention of positioning themselves so they have the best chance of riding with him and Harry to the station.

 

Fortunately, neither of the girls is as cunning as they seem to think they are and even Harry appears to be wise to their plan. Draco watches as he walks over to where Anthony Goldstein is breaking up an impromptu snowball fight with a group of third years and engages him in quiet conversation for a moment.

 

Draco feels a little snarl of irritation as Anthony smiles ingratiatingly at Harry and places a solicitous hand on his arm. He knows Anthony from before the war, knows a couple of people who have been involved with him, and knows that he is nothing but a sleazy sycophant.

 

‘No more than six to a carriage,’ he calls, as he turns his attention back to the overexcited throng, just in time to see a group of about ten fourth years trying to stuff themselves into one carriage. They stop trying to cram themselves in but it looks like a dispute might break out about who the four to travel separately might be.

 

Cursing under his breath, he shuffles forward through the crowds, separating off four of the students and waving them in the direction of the next carriage along. Obviously thinking that Draco is about to board a carriage himself, Lucy and Crystal appear, as if by Apparition, at his side and he smiles slightly smugly as he turns to them.

 

‘Room for two more in this one, girls,’ he says, holding the door open for them and trying not to laugh at the looks of disappointment on their faces when he closes the door behind them and the carriage creaks off down the drive.

 

‘Nicely done,’ Harry says, grinning as he appears back at Draco’s side.

 

‘Yes, well, you abandoned me to fight it out on my own. I was forced to improvise,’ Draco says, affecting what he hopes is a melodramatic air.

 

‘I didn’t,’ Harry insists, apparently believing that Draco is genuinely offended and Draco can’t decide whether it’s because he didn’t come across as dramatic as he was trying to, or whether it’s because Harry expects him to behave like a diva. He hopes not the latter.

 

‘I was just seeing if I could get Anthony to distract them for us,’ Harry insists.

 

‘Yes, well, master of espionage that you are, I’m glad it didn’t take three adults to rescue me from the amorous intentions of two twelve-year-olds,’ he says, climbing into a carriage with the last of the students. He knows he’s being snippy, but something about Goldstein just sets his teeth on edge. As he looks back at Harry, he is flooded with guilt as he takes in the surprised expression and deflated posture.

 

He holds out a hand to Harry, in what he hopes is a conciliatory gesture, offering to pull him into the carriage. Outside in the snow, Harry frowns a little, biting his lip and then reaches out, taking Draco’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled up.

 

 

At the station, the students mill around on the platform, chattering to each other as they wait for the scarlet steam train to roll in. The first flakes are beginning to fall and Draco watches out of the corner of his eye as they cling to Harry’s hair and eyelashes.

 

‘She looks really put out,’ Harry says, and Draco jumps slightly, realising that he has been staring at Harry’s profile for some minutes now.

 

‘Who?’ he asks, following Harry’s gaze to where Lucy stands, silently staring at the opposite platform, as next to her, her friend bobs up and down on her tip-toes, trying to spot the train.

 

‘Obviously doesn’t take well to losing,’ Harry says, though Draco can tell from his tone that he doesn’t entirely believe that and nor does Draco. There is something awkward in the way she is holding herself and something about it that feels familiar to Draco.

 

Finally, the distinctive plume of smoke is visible above the trees and the scarlet steam train slides into the station.

 

The platform is suddenly a flurry of movement as the students swarm towards the train. Draco wades forward, telling people not to push and helping with cumbersome luggage until all the students have made it onto the train with only minor injuries, or so he thinks.

 

Standing in the exact same spot she had occupied before, is Lucy. He glances anxiously at Harry, who shrugs and heads over to where she is standing. She continues to stare at the train with a look of horror on her face and Draco listening as Harry asks her what the matter is.

 

She ignores the question, simply shaking her head, and Harry looks back towards Draco with a panicked expression.

 

‘Hey, what’s wrong with her?’ comes the shout of a boy from further down the train, and Draco looks around to see a third-year hanging out of one of the windows and pointing.

 

‘Helpful, very helpful,’ Draco mutters under his breath and then, with all the authority he can muster, he considers what Severus would have done in this situation.

 

‘Nothing to compare to what with what will be wrong with you if you don’t shut that window and learn to mind your own business,’ he threatens, somewhat ineffectually, he fears, but then the boy disappears and the window slides shut.

 

With a sigh, he makes his way over to where Harry is now crouching next to Lucy and talking to her quietly.

 

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, trying to sound as non-confrontational as possible.

 

‘I have no idea,’ Harry admits. ‘She just says she doesn’t want to go.’

 

‘You don’t want to go home?’ he says at last, realising why the look on Lucy’s face had seemed so familiar.

 

Lucy just shakes her head vehemently, and Harry bites his lip and looks up at Draco silently asking ‘what are we going to do now?’

 

From the front of the train comes a clatter as the driver swings down from the platform.

 

‘Don’t you want to see your parents?’ Harry asks gently and Draco winces in sympathy for Lucy and places a hand on Harry’s shoulder as the girl just screws up her eyes. Harry looks up and Draco just shakes his head. Questions like that aren’t going to help right now.

 

‘What’s the hold-up, lads?’ the train driver asks, offering Draco a broad smile.

 

‘Sorry, could you just give us a minute?’ Draco says, offering what he hopes is his most charming smile.

 

‘I wish I could, but I’ve got to get going, signals and points wait for no man I’m afraid,’ the driver apologises, removing his cap to run his fingers fretfully though his hair.

 

‘Of course,’ Draco smiles, ‘you carry on, we’ll figure something out.’

 

‘Draco,’ Harry hisses urgently, ‘if she’s not on that train, her parents will be worried sick.’

 

‘Well, we can’t force her on,’ Draco whispers back. ‘I think the best thing to do is to go back to the school and speak to McGonagall. We have a good few hours before the train will get back to London, anyway, let’s just go and sit down somewhere that is isn’t snowing, and we can figure this out,’ he insists, tugging Lucy’s heavy bag from her hand and lightening it before throwing it over his shoulder and leading them all back out to the waiting carriage.

 

 

‘Miss Scott, Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy,’ Professor McGonagall greets when they knock on her door half an hour later. ‘What brings you here?’ she asks, stepping aside to grant them entrance to her office.

 

‘Um...’ Harry begins, looking at Draco and then at Lucy, as if seeing if either of them are going to volunteer to tell the headmistress why they are interrupting her quiet Wednesday afternoon. Lucy just looks at her shoes and Draco can’t say he blames her; McGonagall is a fearsome woman.

 

‘Well, there was a bit of a hitch at the station,’ Harry explains, trying to make it sound like it’s nothing, but Draco knows that McGonagall won’t be fooled and so it comes as a bit of shock when the Headmistress reaches out to place a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.

 

‘Is this about your mother?’ she asks, and Lucy looks up at her, dark eyes enormous. For the first time, all the bravado has dropped away and Draco appreciates just how young this girl really is. ‘Come and sit down,’ McGonagall offers and ushers Lucy over towards the window, where a collection of high backed chairs are clustered around a low table, and, with a wave of her wand, a tea tray appears.

 

‘Would you please be so kind as to wait outside, gentlemen?’ McGonagall asks firmly, and Draco already has a hand on the door handle when Lucy speaks up.

 

‘No, it’s okay, they can stay,’ she says, and McGonagall fixes her with a searching look before acquiescing.

 

‘In that case, you had better both sit down; you’re making the place look untidy.’

 

Harry chances what Draco thinks might well be a concerned look at Draco, before heading over and taking the chair next to McGonagall and leaving Draco the one next to Lucy.

 

‘If you would be kind enough to pour the tea, Mr Malfoy,’ McGonagall suggests, and Draco hastens to comply, filling the delicate china cups that look not unlike his mother’s.

 

They sip their tea in silence for a few minutes, but Draco can feel Harry becoming more and more agitated at his side and he knows that it is only a matter of time until he loses control of whatever it is he is trying not to say. It takes everything that Draco has not to reach out and place a calming hand on Harry’s knee. He hides a smile in his teacup when he imagines the look of horror on McGonagall’s face, were he to do just that.

 

Sure enough, Harry’s cup is the first to clatter back into its saucer. ‘I’m sorry, Professor McGonagall, but shouldn’t we contact Lucy’s parents? If she’s not on the train when it arrives, they’ll be worried.’

 

‘Harry,’ she scolds, ‘do you really think that this thought has not occurred to me?’ She looks at him with a mixture of affection and exasperation that makes Draco want to smile more. Up on the wall, behind McGonagall’s desk, he hears one of the portraits cough pointedly and he glances round to see that Dumbledore is looking at him with something very much like a smirk on his face, apparently eager to share the joke.

 

Draco grants the headmaster a genuine smile before turning back to the discussion, where Harry is now stumbling over his words.

 

‘No , Professor McGonagall, it’s not like that, I wasn’t..., I wouldn’t..., I never...’

 

‘Oh, do calm down, Mr Potter, why don’t you take a deep breath, and we’ll see what Miss Scott has to say, shall we?’ Instinctively, Draco reaches for the teapot and refreshes everyone’s cups. He doesn’t need to be told twice; he’s attended dozens of afternoon teas.

 

‘Now, Miss Scott, what seems to be the matter?’

 

‘I received this yesterday,’ she says slipping a letter out of her powder blue coat and pushing it towards McGonagall. The parchment has a large watermark staining it and smells strongly of alcohol.

 

‘She’s just so angry at everyone right now. She’s angry at me because I’m not there with her, she’s angry at my dad because he is, and most of all she’s angry at Jamie for getting killed. Jamie was always her favourite,’ she adds bitterly.

 

‘I’m certain that isn’t true,’ McGonagall says, sounding as reassuring as she can manage. ‘She loves both of you, very dearly.’

 

‘Then why would she do this to me?’ Lucy cries and now it is her that Draco wants to reach out and touch, to put his arm around this child and comfort her. ‘Why does she drink until all she can do is cry and yell?’ she exclaims and Draco slops his tea, spilling the hot liquid onto his trousers and hissing sharply.

 

‘Because she can’t cope with the guilt,’ Draco says quietly and three sets of eyes immediately swivel to look at him.

 

‘My father, last year, while we were in protection. He couldn’t cope, couldn’t cope with the guilt of his son having to save the family from his bad decisions. He drank away the entire year, pretty much, and he was always angry. Angry with me, angry with my mother. My father was angry because he had failed to protect his family, your mother is angry because she failed to protect her son.’

 

Harry’s warm hand rests on Draco’s knee, squeezing reassuringly, and Draco’s heart skips a little at the gesture.

 

‘What happened to him?’ Lucy asks quietly.

 

‘He’s in Azkaban,’ Draco explains, and then, seeing the horrified look on her face, adds, ‘Not because of the drink, because of the choices he made.’

 

‘What did you do?’ she asks, and Draco can see the relief in her eyes, the relief of having found someone who really understands. Relief similar to that he had felt that night in the hospital wing.

 

‘There was nothing I could do. We were in hiding, and believe me when I say that the alternative was much worse. We would try and avoid him as best we could but ultimately we had to just sit and listen to him, but you don’t have to do that,’ he asserts, determined that this girl shouldn’t just put up with her situation.

 

‘So, that’s it?’ she asks, close to tears, and Draco is at a loss for what to say. He wants to be able to tell her that his father came through it and that everything is fine now, but the truth is, Lucius’s alcoholism has been curbed only by the inability of the Azkaban guards to make a passable whiskey mac.

 

‘Lucy,’ McGonagall says, and though her voice is still kind, the tone has an edge to it which tells Draco that whatever she is about to say had better be taken seriously.

 

‘Your mother is in a very dark place. She has been through a terrible experience, but so have you. The way that she chooses to deal with the situation is up to her but it is not your responsibility. You cannot help; she has to be the one to ask for help, to want to change. Until then, I am sorry to say that it is a matter of finding ways to cope, of supporting your father and allowing him to support you.’

 

‘Does this mean I have to go home for Christmas?’ Lucy asks and Draco can tell that she is on the verge of tears. His stomach twists unpleasantly and he wants to jump to his feet and declare that she is too young to be dealing with any of this. And of course she is, but he knows as well anyone that difficult situations rarely wait till one has the maturity to deal with them.

 

‘Why don’t we fire call your father?’ McGonagall asks. ‘We can discuss it with him and then we can talk about what will be for the best. I’m sure that if you really don’t want to go home, he will respect your wishes.’

 

Draco watches as Lucy takes a deep, fortifying breath and seems to strengthen slightly. Her posture becomes straighter and her jaw sets; she nods at McGonagall. ‘He’ll still be at work,’ she says.

 

The common room is empty when Draco and Harry return from McGonagall’s office and it takes Draco more time that he thinks it should to remember that everyone has gone home and that he and Harry are two of only five eighth-years who are staying for any of the holidays. Feeling slightly humbled, Draco folds himself onto the sofa next to Harry and watches as he leans forward to poke at the log on the fire, releasing a hundred fire fairies to dance their way up the chimney.

 

When Harry had talked to him about helping to make Christmas special for those who were touched by the war, he had understood. Had understood that there would be children who suddenly had nowhere but Hogwarts to go, that there would be parents for whom the wounds were still too raw to allow them this celebration. He had not expected to see it quite so vividly, however.

 

He had been shocked by the relief in Lucy’s father’s face and had been moved by his concern for his daughter when he had insisted that the family home was no place for her at the moment. In the end, of course, it had all worked out for the best. Lucy’s decision to stay at school will allow her father to go and spend some time with friends, will allow him some time to grieve and, thanks to a suggestion from Harry, they will even see each other over Christmas with Lucy’s father coming to visit her on Sunday.

 

Next to him, Harry abandons the poker and flops back against the cushions, turning his head to look at Draco, bringing their faces alarmingly close and causing Draco’s breath to catch in his chest. Harry is so close that he can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, can see each insanely long eyelash, can see the smattering of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose.

 

‘I’m sorry you had to go through that, Draco,’ Harry is saying, and Draco struggles desperately to make sense of his words.

 

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ he admits reluctantly. ‘For what are you sorry?’ he asks.

 

Harry smiles at him, obviously amused by something, but whatever it is, he clearly decides to keep it to himself, because when he answers his face is serious again.

 

‘All that, with your father,’ he explains, and Draco is lost for words. ‘Being stuck there with him, that must have been awful,’ Harry continues.

 

Draco searches his eyes for some trace of sarcasm, but Harry appears completely earnest in his remorse for what Draco had experienced and Draco is forced to take a deep breath to keep himself from shaking or kissing the ridiculous man in front of him.

 

‘Absolutely not, you are not apologising for that,’ he declares, surprising both Harry and himself as he sits forward, breaking the eye contact that he thinks had been moments from becoming just a little too intense. ‘After what you did? After the chance you took? After...’ he pauses, feeling a shiver skitter down his spine at the memory of Harry’s sleepy babbling. ‘After ‘take the unknown road now’? And now you want to apologise to me for the fact that I had to spend a year in a slightly run down B&B whilst you were freezing your arse off in the forests, trying to avoid getting caught?’

 

Harry blushes slightly, uncomfortable at Draco’s listing of his sacrifices, and he scrubs aggressively at his hair, the way he always does when someone takes a moment to point out them out to him.

 

‘Do not waste one more moment feeling sorry for me, Harry. The only thing I regret about last year is that I wasn’t able to be more useful to you. I would have given anything to be able to be out there with you, helping you avoid snatchers and my psychotic aunt, but I know I couldn’t,’ he says, eyes flicking involuntarily to the twist of black lines on his forearm. ‘I know I would have just put you in danger, so I did what I could, and if my part was baby-sitting my inebriated, foul-mouthed father, then I got off as lightly as anyone could ask for.’

 

Draco looks back at Harry, offering him a small smile. The light from the fire casts dramatic shadows, throwing the whole of Harry’s right side into silhouette and lending the scene something of a surreal feeling.

 

‘I wish you’d been there, too,’ Harry says, voice scratchy and heavy with emotion. ‘Though I’m glad you were safe.’

 

Draco thinks Harry might be shifting towards him and he feels himself moving, too, feels the distance between then begin to close.

 

Bright light and an icy draught flow into the room, causing Draco to draw back and squint at Neville, who bustles inside, carrying with him an armful of holly and the smell of the outdoors.

 

‘Hi, Harry, Draco,’ he says, apparently unaware that he has interrupted anything as he unwinds his scarf and drops down into the sagging armchair next to the sofa. ‘Look at this,’ he says, dumping the armful of holly on the table.

 

‘I cultivated it myself, it’s designed to stay green for longer and I’ve bred it with cinnamon so that it gives off a Christmassy smell,’ he continues, clearly bursting with pride, and Draco feels himself getting caught up in his enthusiasm. After all, it isn’t Neville’s fault that he is so hopelessly in love that he had been about to pounce on his best friend and. To be honest, Neville has probably just saved him from making a huge mistake.


	10. part ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN - The Box of Delights belongs to John Masefield and everyone who remembers the 1980s adaptation ;)

# Prompt #10 - adventure books

# Thursday, December 10th 1998

# ~~When Likings are Made~

 

‘Draco, for Merlin’s sake, please hurry up, I want to get there at least ten minutes early to set up,’ Harry insists, but Draco ignores his fretting, taking the extra moments he needs to methodically straighten each item and prepare himself to face the students who are going to be arriving in the Transfiguration classroom in half an hour and expecting to be entertained in some way.

 

Finally, Harry appears in the doorway, leaning casually against the jamb and looking calmer, as though he has finally figured out that yelling at Draco to hurry up is not the ideal way of going about things.

 

‘Anything I can do?’ he asks, as though he hadn’t been trying to hurry Draco out of the door just moments before.

 

‘Yes,’ Draco says firmly, pushing a little jar of cream with his finger tip so that is perfectly in line with its counterpart. ‘You can tell me what the hell we are going to do to keep a group of thirty children entertained for the afternoon.’

 

Casually, Harry pushes himself upright and drops down to sit on his bed. ‘Have you ever heard of Christmas movies?’ Harry asks.

 

‘Well I know that movies are the Muggles version of moving pictures and they tell a story; I can only assume that Christmas movies are the same but about Christmas.’

 

‘Close,’ Harry says with a smile. ‘They don’t have to be about Christmas, but they have to be fun and exciting, and to a lot of Muggles they are as an important a part of Christmas as roast turkey or a decorated tree.’

 

‘As lovely as that is, we can’t show a Christmas movie. I remember Muggle Studies, electronics don’t work at Hogwarts.’

 

‘That’s right,’ Harry agrees, now bouncing slightly with enthusiasm, ‘but Hermione and I had an idea—what if one person were to read the story and another created the scenes being described, like animation...’ Harry hesitates and bites down on his lip for a moment, thinking. ‘Drawings that move,’ he explains before Draco has a chance to ask what he means.

 

‘Okay,’ Draco says cautiously. ‘I’m following so far, but how do we make the images?’

 

‘With those,’ Harry states, pointing at a large cauldron and a tall blue candle that are sitting just outside the door. ‘We’re going to use light and steam and I’m going to twist the steam into the shapes while you read the book.’

 

‘That sounds agreeable,’ Draco relents and nudges Harry towards the door, finally ready to leave the dorm. ‘So, what shall I be reading from today?’ he asks, and Harry rummages in the cauldron before extracting a rather well-thumbed paperback and passing it to Draco. Draco turns it over in his hands.

 

‘The Box of Delights,’ he reads, running his fingers over the front cover.

 

‘It’s one of my favourites,’ Harry explains.

 

‘So, tell me about this Muggle tradition of the Christmas movie,’ Draco says, feeling rather curious now that he is no longer terrified of the prospect of entertaining with no idea of what to do. He thinks about the Christingle service and how strange the customs had seemed to him and then he thinks about the rigid, formal Christmases at Malfoy Manor, and how alien they would seem to Harry. With a small smile, he realises that Harry’s idea of Christmas sounds a lot more fun and he cannot keep from his mind the picture that his father’s face would make were he ever to tell him.

 

‘I love Christmas movies,’ Harry enthuses, as they push their way into the chilly classroom. ‘When I was little, it was the only bit of Christmas I really got to see,’ he explains as Draco goes about lighting a fire and Harry sets up his cauldron and adds water straight from his wand.

 

‘The Dursleys would always disappear into the living room to watch a movie after dinner, usually James Bond or Indiana Jones,’ he explains as though the names should mean something to Draco. ‘I would be left to do the washing up but, once I’d finished, I would be allowed to sit and watch as well. It was so exciting watching Indy battle Nazis or track down the Holy Grail, to see James Bond skiing away from bad guys and parachuting off the edge of a cliff.’

 

Draco raises an eyebrow, amused at the idea of little Harry watching these stories and not knowing that he was destined to become the hero himself, battling Death Eaters and tracking down Horcruxes, just like Indiana Jones.

 

‘My favourite films,’ Harry continues, clearly unaware of the parallel, ‘were the ones with magic in them, but Uncle Vernon would always have a conniption if someone stared using magic and he’d change the channel until he found something with guns and fast cars.

 

‘There was this one Christmas, though; Vernon and Petunia were taking Dudley to the theatre to see a pantomime, and then out for dinner after. I think I must have been six or seven. Anyway, they left me with Mrs Figg, our neighbour, which was normally awful; all I was allowed to do was look at photographs of her various cats.’

 

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘That sounds dreadful,’ he commiserates, pulling himself up to sit alongside Harry on the desk and watching as the water starts to heat, just a stray curl of steam rising from it every now and then.

 

‘It was pretty tedious,’ Harry agrees, ‘except this year. This year, there was something different. There had been a television programme on, ‘The Box of Delights’. I remember Dudley had started to watch it but he’d found it a bit weird and had stopped, but Mrs Figg had taped it for me; I sat in front of her tiny little television and watched the whole thing, beginning to end.

 

‘I remember wishing that I had been Kay Harker; his parents weren’t around either but he was left with his guardian, and she was lovely to him, and he had adventures with his cousins. I thought about what it would be like to have the Box of Delights, to be able to go small and hide, or to go swift and fly away.’ Harry has something of a far-away look on his face as he describes his childhood fantasies.

 

‘Anyway, when my Hogwarts letters started arriving and they gave me Dudley’s second bedroom to sleep in, there were books in there, books everywhere, books that Dudley didn’t even know he had, and among them I found that,’ he says, pointing to the battered paperback.

 

Draco picks up the book and flicks through it, taking in the paper that has been worn soft and shiny by frequent use. ‘Well, I shall look forward to reading it,’ he promises, as the door pushes open and the first of the children make their way into the classroom.

 

 

‘In a moment, Kay understood what the attack was. Somewhere down on the hill slopes, coming towards them, that faint cry which had so scared him, now burst out with a frenzy and nearness which made his blood run cold. “The wolves are running,” he muttered. “And now here they are.”’ Draco reads by the light of the fire. No one is looking at him, however; all eyes are on the eerie blue shapes that Harry is manipulating, the steam lit from below by the light of the candle.

 

Currently, Harry is twisting into shape the image of a young boy, aged nine or ten and dressed in a three piece suit with short trousers and clinging tightly to the reigns of a little horse. A walled camp grows up around him, and he looks down the hill at the wolves surrounding the frightened villagers.

 

‘Just three feet from him, a big wolf leaped to the stockade,’ Draco reads, and the classroom is filled with gasps as a somewhat fearsome wolf bounds towards the camp. A collective breath is released moments later as Draco continues: ‘A man struck at it with a kind of adze, and missed it, Kay thought, but the fierce head fell back.’

 

He is enjoying the book, he must admit, and it is very gratifying to watch as the listeners become so engaged with the story. He admits that he was a little unsure of himself at first, and some of the language is still a little strange—he has no idea what the character meant when he exclaimed that he hadn’t “a tosser to his kick”—but he’s definitely beginning to get caught up in the story, and he only wishes he could look along with everyone else at the pictures Harry is making with the steam.

 

They are truly beautiful and Harry is clearly drawing on his memory of the film to create them, but still the artistry involved is impressive and not something Draco ever expected to see from Harry.

 

‘I guess I’ve always loved art,’ Harry says, when Draco asks him about it after the students have finally left the classroom and they are drying the heavy layer of condensation which now covers the walls and windows.

 

‘Well, you are very talented,’ Draco insists, feeling slightly awkward in giving the compliment.  
  
  
‘Thanks.’ Harry blushes, apparently just as uncomfortable in receiving the compliment. ‘I guess it’s just a shame that ‘steam artist’ isn’t a recognised career path.’


	11. part eleven

**Prompt #11 - ice of any kind**

**Friday, December 11th, 1998**  
 **~Falling for you~**  
  
Draco stirs in his sleep. Someone is rustling around in the dormitory and making more noise than is really necessary at this time of the morning.  
  
‘What’s going on?’ he mumbles, peering through the darkness to where someone is sitting on the windowsill, knees drawn up and silhouetted against the deep purple light of the early dawn.  
  
‘Sorry, Draco, I didn’t mean to wake you,’ Harry apologises. ‘Go back to sleep.’  
  
‘Aren’t you cold?’ Draco asks, ignoring Harry’s suggestion and sitting up, lowering his feet to the freezing cold floorboards.  
  
‘A little,’ Harry shrugs, turning his attention back the silent grounds.  
  
‘Seriously, Harry,’ Draco says, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth as he makes his way over to the window. ‘What is the matter?’  
  
‘I dunno,’ Harry says, shifting to the side in order to give Draco space to perch. ‘I just feel really restless. I couldn’t sleep properly; I kept waking up.’  
  
Draco is certain there must be more to Harry’s sleep issue than he’s saying. He has slept in the same room as Harry for the better part of four months and Harry is an excellent sleeper. Draco can count on one hand the number of times he has failed to be asleep the moment he is horizontal, and on those occasions, he has always been fretting about something.   
  
Together, they continue to stare out of the window. The lawns are covered in a smooth blanket of snow that glows an eerie lilac in the pre-dawn light. Above the dark trees of the forest, there is a thin band of pale gold. Cold radiates from the glass and, on the upper panes, the intricate and spiky shapes of frost are visible. He is already regretting what he is about to suggest, but he knows he needs to get Harry to talk somehow and with the castle now devoid of Hermione and any and all Weasleys, it’s going to fall to him to wrestle whatever the problem is from Harry.  
  
‘Right then,’ Draco sighs, placing his hands on his knees and pushing himself to his feet. ‘Get dressed,’ he insists, crossing in the room and rummaging in his trunk for his warmest jumper and thickest pair of socks.  
  
Harry scrabbles to his feet. ‘Where’re we going?’ Harry asks, casting aside his pyjama top and giving Draco a flash of smooth olive skin that is enough to make his face heat, before pulling on a soft-looking navy blue jumper.  
  
‘We are going for a walk,’ Draco says, deliberately keeping his back to Harry as he pulls on jeans that are so cold they make his breath catch in his chest.   
  
‘But Draco... it’s not even light yet,’ Harry points out unnecessarily. Draco can still hear him scrabbling to get dressed, though, so the protest is obviously for his benefit.   
  
‘Which means we are less likely to get hit in the side of the head with a snowball as we walk,’ Draco points out.  
  
  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Draco has his hands wrapped around a steaming paper cup of the most delicious smelling coffee as the pick their way through the snow towards the lake. His face feels tight against the cold and the air stings his throat with each breath, but he relishes the clean taste and the way the chill cuts through the last wisps of sleepiness that have been clinging to his consciousness.   
  
The snow is lying thickly and, in places, comes right above their knees, and Draco starts to question the wisdom of this little expedition. The cold can’t be doing Harry’s knee any good at all. When he glances sideways at his friend, however, he seems deep in thought and is sipping his coffee quietly, as though oblivious to the difficult conditions.   
  
Discordant honking drifts on the light breeze and Draco pauses, looking up to see a long V of Canada geese descending towards the lake. They soar across it, wing tips barely skimming the surface, before skidding to a stop and Draco smiles, inexplicably charmed at the sight of them, and hoping the Giant Squid will decide to leave them be.  
  
‘Do you have any idea about what you’re going to do when you leave here?’ Harry asks suddenly, and when Draco looks back at him, he, too, is staring out over the lake but seemingly unfocused on anything.   
  
Draco doesn’t say anything for quite some time; instead he just watches the geese as they glide majestically across the surface of the water and sips his coffee as he turns Harry’s question over in his mind. Harry must be able to see that he is considering it, as he doesn’t push Draco for an answer, instead slowly picking his way through the snow once more towards the edge of the lake.   
  
‘All I really know,’ Draco says eventually, following in the track that Harry has made, ‘is what I don’t want to be.’   
  
‘And what’s that?’ Harry asks, glancing back over his shoulder.   
  
‘My father,’ he says simply. Harry stops and turns to look at Draco, concern clearly visible on his face.   
  
‘Draco, I promise you, that is never going to happen,’ Harry says firmly and Draco can’t help the little smile that creeps on to his face at Harry’s fervent defence of him, even against himself.  
  
‘I don’t just mean that,’ he says. Truth be told, he has been trying to avoid thinking about life after Hogwarts but he supposes now is a good a time as any to open that particular door. He is going to have to do it sooner or later, after all. ‘I don’t want to deal with the businesses, the politics; I don’t want to spend my days swanning around the manor, sucking up to terminally dull, morally bereft old coots,’ Draco says, feeling himself become more impassioned with every word. He inhales deeply, trying to regain control of his breathing, which has become a little ragged.  
  
‘I want to do something that makes a difference,’ he says at last.  
  
‘Do you mean charity work?’ Harry asks when he is certain Draco has finished.  
  
‘I don’t know,’ Draco says honestly, but at the same time wrinkling his nose. His father was always involved in all the right charities and the idea of focusing solely on that is a little too close to something Lucius would approve of. He thinks for a moment and then says the first thing that springs into his head.  
  
‘I think maybe I’m tired of secrets,’ he says, finally giving voice to a thought that has been years in the making. ‘Secrets corrupt people.’  
  
‘It’s a start,’ Harry says, ‘I think sometimes the best place to start is knowing what you don’t want to do.’ He pauses, as if searching for the right words, ‘All I seem to be fixated on is what I can’t do.’   
  
‘What do you mean?’ Draco asks, though he has a sneaking suspicion and he glances down at Harry’s knee just in time to see it buckle. Instinctively, Draco reaches out to catch Harry, lunging forward and grabbing him around the wrist. His instincts, of course, are useless, and have failed to factor in several important details. Most importantly, Harry is heavier than he is and the basic physics of the situation are destined to send Draco sprawling.   
  
Of course, even if Draco were able to counteract the weight of Harry Potter crashing to the ground, he would still require some kind of traction, something the slippery, compact snow seems unable to provide him with.   
  
Time seems to slow as he feels his foot slide out from underneath him, his free arm windmills, attempting in vain to grasp hold of something, anything, that will help him stay upright, but again and again his fingers encounter nothing but cold, empty air. He feels himself tip forward and his stomach swoops unpleasantly.  
  
He crashes down, sprawled across Harry, causing him to exhale sharply.  
  
‘I’m sorry, are you alright?’ Draco asks, peering into Harry’s face at close range and looking for signs of injury. Beneath him, Harry is shaking gently, and Draco begins to worry that he is having a fit. He scrabbles to gain purchase, to push himself to his feet, to call for help, but Harry rests a hand on the small of his back in an attempt to still him and it is then that Draco realises that he isn’t injured, he’s laughing.  
  
‘Well, that right there is a perfect example of the one thing I can’t do,’ Harry giggles, tipping his head back until it rests on soft, powdery snow. ‘I wanted to be an Auror, Draco, it’s all I ever wanted to be,’ he explains. He isn’t looking at Draco; he’s looking up at the sky, and for that, Draco is grateful. If he were to look at him right at this moment, Draco thinks there is every chance that he might just burst into flames. He is firm and warm beneath Draco, and the hand resting on the small of his back seems to be trying to burn its way right through his heavy woollen coat.  
  
‘The applications for the Auror training programme had to be in by the first of December,’ Harry explains, apparently totally unaware of what the proximity is doing to Draco. ‘Ron got a letter back the morning he left. An unconditional offer of a place. Usually they send out offers in April, and then they are conditional, based on NEWT results, but Ron got an unconditional offer.’  
  
‘And you didn’t?’ Draco asks.  
  
‘I didn’t apply,’ Harry admits and a wave of relief passes through Draco. He can’t put his finger on why, but the idea of Harry being an Auror makes him feel slightly uncomfortable.   
  
‘Thing is,’ Harry continues, ‘I have no idea what I am going to do. Hermione has been talking to me about colleges and things, but I just don’t know. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore,’ he sighs and shivers and something in Draco’s consciousness clicks and makes him aware that they are lying in a snowdrift and that the icy water is starting to seep through their clothes.  
  
Ignoring the hand at his back as best he can, Draco drags himself to his feet and, digging in his heels, holds out a hand to Harry. ‘Come on,’ he insists. ‘I promise there will be something out there that is just perfect for you, but you aren’t ever going to find it if you catch hypothermia and die out here in the snow.’  
  
Grumbling a little, Harry reaches out a hand and allows Draco to pull him to his feet and cast warming and drying charms at his saturated back.   
  
‘I don’t know,’ Harry muses as they make their way back towards the castle, and Draco’s thoughts turn towards breakfast and hot chocolate, ‘maybe I could be a stunt man,’ he suggests.  
  
‘What on earth is that?’ Draco asks. He is beginning to suspect that Harry uses all these strange Muggle terms just to give him the chance to explain them to him.  
  
‘It’s someone who gets paid to fall down a lot, on purpose,’ Harry grins.   
  
Draco rolls his eyes. ‘What worries me is that you think you’re funny,’ he says, scooping up a handful of powdery snow and flinging it into the back of Harry’s head.


	12. part twelve

Prompt #12 - Christmas markets

# Saturday, December 12th 1998

# \- Subtext, Subtext, Subtext -

 

‘Draco! I hope you haven’t been waiting long, old boy.’

  
Blaise’s rich voice cuts through the chatter of Diagon Alley and Draco turns, eventually spotting his friend wading towards him through the crowds.

  
‘We agreed to meet at two, Blaise, it is now twenty past, so it shouldn’t come as any surprise to you to discover that I have been waiting for twenty minutes,’ Draco says, aiming for aloof but unable to maintain it. It is almost impossible to maintain a bad mood around Blaise, and besides, the entrance to Diagon Alley isn’t the worst place to kill some time, especially this close to Christmas.

  
He has some coffee and a warming charm to protect against the wind and he has been watching the many different people, weighed down with bags or children, come and go. Some have looked harried and stressed, but more have worn smiles or festive garb and he has been wished a Merry Christmas more times than he can count.

  
There is something in air this December. There is an overwhelming feeling of hope and promise that he can’t ever remember experiencing before and has, in fact, only ever read about in stories.

  
‘Ah, Draco,’ Blaise says forlornly. ‘Always so relentlessly punctual.’

  
‘Just saying that like it’s a bad thing doesn’t automatically make it one,’ Draco smiles. Some things never change and Blaise has been mocking him for being on time for as long as he can remember.

  
‘Could I perhaps offer you a dragon-roasted chestnut in contrition?’ Blaise asks, proffering a brown paper bag and releasing the rich, sweet scent. ‘They are simply divine.’

  
Draco takes one of the nuts and mutters a spell which will divest it of its shell, before popping the nut in his mouth and immediately having to suck at the cold air in the hope of cooling the treat to a point where it won’t melt the inside of his mouth.

  
Blaise laughs and several Diagon Alley patrons turn to look, so loud is the sound. ‘What would your mother say if she could see you now?’ Blaise bellows. ‘All those years of training abandoned for a hot chestnut.’

  
‘Oh, shut up,’ Draco retorts, but there is no malice in his words.

  
‘So, Caro, how can I be of service?’ Blaise asks, putting the bag into his pocket and extracting his own nut. ‘Your note came across as rather cloak and dagger,’ he says, cracking the shell of his nut easily between thumb and forefinger and taking the time to peel it by hand.

  
‘Nothing mysterious, Blaise,’ Draco explains, ‘I just need to get some Christmas shopping and I’m not going to get very many opportunities to do that now that I’m going to the Weasleys’ for Christmas.’

  
Blaise begins to cough violently and Draco reaches up to slap him firmly on the back.

  
‘Breathe, Blaise,’ Draco says, rolling his eyes. Blaise is the only person he has ever met who rivals his own love of the dramatic, except perhaps his father.

  
‘I’m sorry, Draco, but you can’t deny, you spending Christmas with the Weasley family is a bit of a turn up for the books.’

  
‘Yes, well, Harry asked them to invite me and they did; it would be rude not to attend. And besides, Ron, Hermione, Ginevra... they’re all friends. It won’t be that strange, I’m sure,’ Draco explains, but in his head he knows for a fact that he is trying to convince himself as much as he is trying to convince Blaise.

  
‘So, you want help choosing gifts for the Weasleys?’ Blaise asks as they head towards the brightly-lit market stalls that are currently set out in the middle of Diagon Alley, selling all sorts of festive things. ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be a lot of help, I still haven’t bought anything for Aurelia. I fear she will end up with a panic-bought silk scarf once again.’

  
‘As useless as you seem to think that you might be, it is not the Weasleys I need help buying for. It’s Harry,’ Draco admits and Blaise winces.

  
‘What _sort_ of present are we looking for?’ Blaise asks, looking over a wonderful-smelling stall which specialises in leather bags, satchels, wallets, belts and the like.

  
‘A Christmas present,’ Draco says, looking at Blaise askance and running his fingers over a butter-soft, tan satchel and immediately deciding that, as beautiful as it is, it just isn’t right.

  
‘I’d rather figured that out,’ Blaise says, turning his attention from the belt he has been admiring to shoot Draco a weary look. ‘What I meant, of  
course, is what are you trying to say with this gift? What is the subtext? Are you buying it for your friend? Your host? A hero? Someone you desire? Someone you love?’

  
‘All and none of the above?’ Draco says. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing, Blaise,’ he admits.

  
‘It’s alright, none of us do,’ Blaise says. ‘All we can do is act as though we have some idea of what is happening and hope that others fall for the pretence,’ he adds sagely and Draco smiles at him. ‘As for the gift, get him something that will last, something practical and everyday, but special,’ he says, as they move to the next stall which is heaving under vast slabs of fudge in every flavour possible. Blaise rubs his hands delightedly and quickly exchanges a Galleon for a rather large piece of Flanagan’s Flame fudge. ‘That way,’ he continues, offering Draco a small square of the fudge, ‘all possible subtext is covered.

  
‘If you get something that will last, you are saying that you are staying around for the long term, something and practical and everyday, you are telling him that you are there to be relied upon, that you are no fair-weather friend; something special suggests that you are more than the run-of-the-mill, that there is something special, if only he will notice it.’ Blaise looks around at Draco, eyes wide. ‘Good Lord,’ he exclaims, ‘I did not realise I could be so profound.’

  
‘That’s you,’ Draco scoffs. ‘Sage-like,’ he teases. Secretly, he is rather impressed at Blaise’s analysis, but it wouldn’t do to let him know that, his ego doesn’t require any stroking.

  
‘Or,’ Blaise says, apparently ignoring the slight and bouncing up to the next stall. ‘You could get him a shrunken head,’ he declares, holding up the strange wrinkled thing.

  
‘How will that say all we wish to say about permanence and reliability and being special?’ Draco asks, wrinkling his nose slightly at the grotesque object.

  
‘Well, it won’t,’ Blaise admits. ‘But everyone loves a shrunken head.’

  
‘Absolutely not,’ Draco insists and quickly moves past the macabre stall, however, he doesn’t think he imagines another few Galleons changing hands or the shrunken head making its way into Blaise’s pocket.

  
By the time the reach the middle of Diagon Alley an hour and a half later, they have considered and rejected eagle feather quills and water proof trilbies, unbreakable tea mugs and ever-fresh socks. The light is beginning to fade and the Christmas decorations are glowing from every stall and every shop window. Up ahead, light spills out over the cobbles from the brightest shop on the street.

  
Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is packed with people, all involved in Christmas shopping and, up at the front three red-heads are moving at a frenetic pace, just trying to keep up with the requests of all their customers.

  
‘Come on,’ Draco insists, following the smell of cinnamon to a stall selling hot spiced pumpkin juice and sugared doughnuts.

  
‘Ooh, this is a welcome break,’ Blaise exclaims, inhaling deeply and raising his eyebrow when Draco orders five cups of juice and a bag of ten doughnuts.

  
‘Are we expecting company?’ Blaise asks, easily taking command of three of the cups and the bag of doughnuts.

  
‘No, we’re going looking for company,’ Draco explains, weaving his way back towards Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. ‘It won’t hurt to try to ingratiate myself to my hosts.’

  
Draco is pleased to notice that the crush of customers has thinned out a little as he approaches the shop. He pushes his way into the delicious warmth and sets the bell above the door clanging obnoxiously.

  
‘Well, well, well,’ George says from behind the counter.

  
‘If it isn’t Draco Malfoy,’ Fred finishes.

  
‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’ they say as one, giving Draco the impression that he always gets with the twins, that they have rehearsed everything they ever say.

  
‘You looked like you might be a little busy,’ Draco says, stepping up to the counter and handing over the warm cups of juice. ‘I thought I would bring you some sustenance,’ he says, taking the extra cup and the bag of doughnuts from Blaise before realising that they have one too many. ‘I thought Ginevra was helping out during the holidays,’ he says, confused.

  
‘She is,’ George confirms, sipping at his juice and tearing into the bag to retrieve a doughnut.

  
‘Oi, Gin!’ Fred yells over his shoulder, before turning his attention to his own doughnut.

  
‘Is there really any need to yell, Fred?’ Ginny asks, appearing from the store room and, behind him, Draco hears Blaise’s breath catch. ‘Oh, hello, Draco,’ she greets pleasantly.

  
Blaise steps forward, offering the remaining cup to her. ‘Lovely to see you again, Ginny,’ he says, his voice low and smooth, and Draco shakes his head in disbelief as he watches Ginevra colour slightly as she accepts her drink.

  
‘You too, Blaise,’ she says, and she too has lowered her voice into something resembling a purr.

  
Behind her, her brothers exchange a look of mischievous glee.

  
‘Draco,’ Fred, exclaims breathily, flicking his hair to the side dramatically, ‘it is simply delicious to see you again,’ he insists, sidling rather closer than is strictly necessary.

  
‘Fred,’ Ginevra warns, reclaiming something of her fierce tone as she turns to swat her brother around the back of the head. Fred, knowing when to stop to avoid being hexed, simply flashes her a cheeky grin and shoves a doughnut into her mouth.

  
Behind him, however, Draco is aware that Blaise is quieter than he has ever known him.

  
When they emerge back into the street twenty minutes later, Draco looks down the at the remaining stalls and feels himself beginning to lose hope that he’s going to ever find a gift for Harry. They walk on in silence for a few minutes, gazing at stalls but not really ensnared by their shiny products the way they had been before their visit to the shop. Blaise certainly seems to be in something of a daze and Draco is about to give in and go back to the beginning and get the satchel when he sees it.

  
The stall is full of copper items—necklaces, bracelets, kettles, cruets, all glowing beautifully in the soft light, but even amongst this collection of items, the clock still stands out and he watches it as its hands wave gently and it emits puffs of coloured steam at regular intervals. It’s everything it needs to be.


	13. part thirteen

# Prompt #13 - cold hands

# Sunday December 13th, 1998

#  Cold Hands, Warm Heart

 

Draco watches as Harry casts yet another warming charm, only for it to fizzle once more as it comes into contact with the Hogwarts wards.

 

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he has told him that here at the edge of the wards, all magic has trouble sustaining itself, Harry seems unwilling to stop trying with the warming spells.

 

Not that Draco blames him. It is freezing here at the gates and the temperature has fallen even further since the sun has dropped behind the mountains. He is seriously beginning to wonder whose bright idea it had been to come down and meet Lucy from the Knight bus so that she isn’t forced to walk up to the school in the dark on her own, but he pushes the unhelpful thought away, concerned that if he thinks about it too hard, it might turn out that it was his idea in the first place.

 

Beside him, Harry begins the next part of his keeping warm ritual and starts jumping up and down. Draco closes his eyes; there is nothing he can do to prevent it. Any minute now, Harry’s knee will give out again and drop him into the snow, and Draco has no idea why he insists on behaving as though he is free from injury.

 

Right on time, the knee gives way but, for a change, Harry remains upright and instead he manages to catch himself on Draco’s shoulder as he continues to hop up and down on one foot.

 

‘My god, your hands are freezing,’ Draco gasps as Harry’s icy fingers brush against the warm skin on Draco’s neck as he struggles to maintain his balance until his leg is willing to take his weight again.

 

‘Of course they are,’ Harry says, eyebrow twitching in amusement. ‘Did you think that I’d been complaining of being cold for your entertainment?’

 

‘Well, you do have some very strange ideas,’ Draco points out as he reaches out to steady Harry while he tries his knee again, relieved when it takes his weight. ‘And why for the love of Merlin aren’t you wearing gloves?’ Draco asks, baffled. ‘Surely the snow was a clue that it was going to be cold outside.’

 

‘I haven’t got any,’ Harry explains, bringing his hands to his mouth to blow on them and rubbing them together vigorously. ‘Other than Quidditch gloves, that is.’

 

‘And is there a reason you couldn’t have worn those?’ Draco asks, amused, holding out his own gloved hands for Harry’s.

 

‘What, and ruin my exceptionally stylish outfit?’ Harry asks, indicating his bulky jacket and scruffy jeans but giving his hands over to Draco’s control.

 

‘You could have worn your Herbology gloves and you wouldn’t have ruined that outfit,’ Draco scoffs, wrapping his hands around Harry’s and hoping that the warming charms sewn into the leather will help the fingers that look almost blue.

 

Slowly, Harry’s fingers start to warm and, with the threat of frostbite having passed, Draco becomes aware that once again, he and Harry have found themselves standing ridiculously close together and touching.

 

He is certain that the world has taken to conspiring against him, coming up with more and more outlandish ways to get the two of them to stand close and gaze into each other’s eyes and really, it is starting to get ridiculous. He chances a glance at Harry’s face and quickly looks away again, knowing that the eye contact will be too intense. If he looks at Harry right now, no power on earth is going to stop him kissing him. He needs a distraction and he needs one now.

 

‘You’ll never guess what happened when Blaise and I were at the markets yesterday,’ he says, rubbing Harry’s hands vigorously in an attempt to make the whole thing seem a little less like he is making some kind romantic overture. ‘Blaise and I popped into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes to take them some drinks and there was what I can only describe as a moment between Blaise and Ginevra.’

 

‘Really?’ Harry asks, sounding amused, ‘What kind of moment are we talking about?’

 

‘They were just kind of gazing into each other’s eyes,’ Draco mumbles as he realises what a poor choice of topic this really is, as now he can’t do anything but compare the two situations.

 

‘Do you think it’s worth inviting him to the Weasley Christmas Party?’ Harry asks. Draco looks up in surprise and remembers quite suddenly why he had been intently studying the tan leather of his glove up until this point. Harry’s face is a lot closer than he remembers and his eyes are warm and interested and Draco feels like his insides have been turned into a mass of particularly enthusiastic eels.

 

‘I’m sorry?’ Draco apologises, having no idea what Harry has just asked.

 

‘There’s a big party for friends and extended family on Christmas Eve. I just wondered if it would be worth inviting him? If you think they’re both interested, that is. It’s about time Ginny had a little fun.’

 

‘Um, yeah, sure,’ Draco says, looking quickly back down at the snow and willing himself not to blush.

 

Draco is unbelievably relieved when a loud bang echoes through the trees and the obnoxiously purple Knight bus swerves into view and screeches to a stop just inches from where they are standing.

 

With a mixture of disappointment and relief, Draco drops Harry’s hands and looks around to see Lucy bounce into view, hair drawn back from her face by a pair of furry earmuffs that she had not been wearing when they saw her onto the bus this morning.

 

‘Did you have a good day?’ Harry asks, falling into step beside the girl.

 

‘Oh yes, Lucy chatters away enthusiastically. ‘We went out for lunch and then Daddy took me to Twilfitt and Tattings and bought me these earmuffs.’

 

Draco allows himself to fall behind them slightly as they make their way up towards the castle, grateful, at least for the moment, to be out of Harry’s eye-line. He just needs a few moments to collect himself and, as Lucy tells Harry everything she can remember about her afternoon, he begins to wonder how he is going to make it through this holiday without doing something he will regret.


	14. part fourteen

# Prompt #14 - makeshift Christmas stockings

#  Monday, December, 14th, 1998

**Balance**

 

‘Harry, what on earth is the matter?’ Draco asks, finally giving in.

 

Today they are apparently doing something creative with the students, and for the past half an hour Harry has been laying out swathes of different coloured felt, pots of buttons and sequins and reels of thread, but he has been doing so in absolute silence, not even telling Draco what it is that they are supposed to be making with this strange collection of items.

 

‘Nothing,’ Harry says, affecting a cheery tone that does nothing at all to convince Draco.

 

‘Uh-huh?’ Draco says sceptically, folding his arms and fixing Harry with his most pointed stare.

 

‘Alright,’ Harry relents, slumping into a chair. ‘I never seem to be able to hide anything from you.’ He falls silent for a moment or two and Draco is just about to prod at him when he looks up sharply.

 

‘Does that ever strike you as odd?’ Harry asks, fixing Draco with an intense look that seems to deplete the amount of oxygen in the air.

 

‘Does what strike me as odd?’ Draco asks, sliding into the chair next to Harry’s.

 

‘I can’t hide anything from you, not a thing and the strangest part is, I don’t want to. With Ron, with Hermione, with Ginny, I’m worried... what will they say? Will Ron feel awkward? Will Hermione worry? Will Ginny think I’m losing my mind? But with you, it just feels right, I never doubt that I will feel better sharing it with you. It’s just a bit strange that you turn out to be my best friend.’

 

‘I suppose it is a little unusual when you think about it like that, but it still doesn’t answer my question. What is the matter? You’ve been moping around all morning.’

 

‘It’s nothing really,’ Harry begins and he is about to continue when a scuffling outside the door announces the imminent arrival of their charges. ‘I promise, we’ll talk later,’ Harry says, pushing himself heavily to his feet.

 

‘Fine,’ Draco agrees reluctantly, ‘but would you please at least explain what we are doing here?’

 

‘We’re making Christmas stockings,’ Harry says.

 

‘Isn’t that a little insensitive?’ Draco asks, leaning close, keeping his voice low and trying desperately not to think about the scent of Harry’s cologne. ‘Some of these children no longer have anyone to buy them presents.’

 

‘The War Orphans Trust have made a collection to ensure those staying at Hogwarts this year receive at least a few gifts. We’re going to be making stockings to be filled.’

 

Making Christmas stockings turns out to be a lot more complicated than Draco had ever imagined and he quickly finds himself falling behind everyone else. Not in the least because he is spending so much of his time watching Harry.

 

Harry moves among the groups, offering support and helping where required. He sketches beautifully intricate designs on scraps of paper, shows people a variety of embroidery stitches to create pictures and words, ties ribbons, selects buttons and generally acts as some kind of stocking-making aficionado. And while he does this, while he is working with the students, he seems happy; he seems his old self. It is the moments in between that catch Draco’s attention. When he thinks no one is looking, Harry seems to sag. The energy seems to drain out of him, leaving him looking forlorn and alone.

 

It is about halfway through the session when Harry’s knee gives way and sends him crashing to the cold stone. Draco is up and out of his chair, almost before anyone has even noticed what has happened and he encourages everyone to carry on as he approaches Harry, hand outstretched with the intention of helping him to his feet.

 

‘I’m fine, Draco, I can manage,’ he snaps, tone harsh as he struggles to get to his feet and Draco retreats, feeling like he has been slapped in the face, but he doesn’t fail to notice that Harry seems more distressed by his sudden introduction to the floor that he has in the past.

 

Thinking that the best possible course at the moment is to back off and give Harry space, Draco returns to his stocking but keeps half an eye on Harry, watching as he takes a moment to collect himself before hitching a smile back onto his face and throwing himself back into the creative process.

 

Twenty minutes later, Draco is focusing hard on fixing a button into the design on his stocking when Harry approaches and sits down next to him. He doesn’t look up at him.

 

‘I’m sorry I snapped,’ Harry murmurs, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the room. ‘I’m just feeling more limited by my injury than usual today.’

 

‘We all have days like that,’ Draco admits, knowing that he has certainly had plenty of days when he has felt the restrictions placed upon him by virtue of being a Malfoy. ‘I don’t think it helps to keep them to yourself when you do, though.’

 

‘You’re probably right,’ Harry admits, peering over Draco’s shoulder at the stocking for the first time. ‘Wow, that’s so neat!’ Harry says, impressed

 

‘Thank you,’ Draco says, feeling rather proud of his button and sequin snowflake. It has taken him a few attempts to get it just right, especially since this is the first time he has ever sewn anything, but finally all the decorations are in the exact right place. Next to him, Harry scrapes back his chair and slowly circles behind Draco.

 

‘I mean it, Draco,’ Harry says, clinging onto the table edge and lowering himself to inspect it at eye-level. ‘It’s perfect, it’s so symmetrical!’

 

‘You say that like it’s a strange thing,’ Draco says with a frown. ‘Why wouldn’t it be symmetrical?’

 

‘I don’t know,’ Harry shrugs. ‘Maybe because people tend not to take that much care over things like felt Christmas stockings.’

 

Draco shudders slightly at the thought and straightens the ribbon around the top so that both loops are exactly the same size before trimming the ends to equal length.

 

‘Harry!’ a distressed call comes from the other side of the room and they both look up to see a boy who appears to have become completely tangled in silver thread. ‘I tried to charm my needle and this happened,’ he says, attempting to hold out his arms illustratively and realising that they have become bound to his sides.

 

‘Be right there,’ Harry says, giving Draco the first genuine smile he has managed all day, and rushing off to untie the boy.


	15. part fifteen

# Prompt #15 - hot chocolate

# Tuesday December 15th, 1998

# Out of Nowhere

 

Draco watches Kreacher as he scurries about the kitchen, gathering ingredients, warming milk and finding glasses. It’s after nine and, at the other end of the kitchen, the house-elves appear to be preparing something that looks very much like a gingerbread Hogwarts. It is at least half as tall as Draco as it stands and its brightly coloured sugar windows glow gently, as the castle appears to have been lit from inside. The elves seem currently to be focusing on a rather tricky looking piece that looks suspiciously like the astronomy tower, and royal icing is going everywhere.

 

‘Your drinks are ready, Master Malfoy.’

 

Draco jumps as the squeak-rasp of Kreacher’s voice comes from somewhere near his knee and he realises that he has been staring at the industrious and ambitious elves for the last ten minutes.

 

‘Thank you, Kreacher,’ Draco says, taking the two mugs of hot chocolate, which the elf has festooned with whipped cream, marshmallows and flaked chocolate and deciding that they are going to require a stasis charm to allow him to transport them back to the common room, where Harry is no doubt still deep in thought.

 

The moping around has gone on long enough now. There’s no question that Harry had improved slightly after their brief discussion the day before, but this morning he clearly still had something on his mind. His responses had been more taciturn and, while the smoke and shadow images he had created while they had finished the reading of ‘Box of Delights’ had been just as beautiful as all the others, he had not thrown himself into the howling of the wolves the way he had previously.

 

There is no question in Draco’s mind; Harry is distracted. Something is preying on him and despite the several interruptions yesterday, Draco is determined that today they will make time to talk.

 

In the common room, Draco is unsurprised to find Harry in exactly the same position as when he had left him, head resting atop drawn up knees as he stares into the fire.

 

‘Here,’ he says, pushing the cup towards Harry across the table and watching him startle, obviously unaware that Draco had approached.

 

‘Draco!’ he exclaims. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you.’

 

‘Clearly,’ Draco says, trying very hard to keep his tone neutral and not disparaging. ‘So, are you ready to talk about it now?’ Draco asks, swiping his finger through the whipped cream atop his drink and sucking the digit into his mouth in a move that would be sure to make his mother cringe were she to see it.

 

Harry doesn’t answer at first, instead pulling a folded piece of parchment from his back pocket and pushing it across the table towards Draco. ‘That arrived yesterday morning,’ he explains when Draco picks up the paper and unfolds it.

 

Apprehension begins to skitter up and down Draco’s spine when he sees the Ministry insignia at the top of the paper and he is caught up in the inexplicable urge to throw the letter into the fire and watch it burn. Instead, he takes a deep breath and reads:

 

_Dear Mr Harry Potter,_

 

_We are writing to inform you that you have been accepted into the Auror Training Programme and, on this occasion, we would like to extend an unconditional offer for you to join the programme._

 

_This offer is in recognition of the unparalleled experience which you alone will be able to bring to the programme and can be taken up either in our January intake, (to begin Monday, January 4 th 1999) or, should you wish to finish your education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, we will happy to invite you to join our September intake (date to be confirmed.)_

 

_We understand that you suffered an injury to your knee during the war, but want to ensure you that while this would normally be a prohibiting condition, we are willing to overlook it in favour of your unique experience and we believe that this should in no way impede your career within the Auror department._

 

_If you wish to be part of our January intake, please owl your intent no later than Monday, December 28 th 1998, otherwise we will contact you with the September intake date as soon as this becomes available._

 

_The Ministry of Magic would like to thank you for all your good service and we look forward to hearing from you shortly._

 

_Yours sincerely_

 

_Franz Fitzwilliam_

 

_Assistant Head of the Auror Department_

 

Draco reads the letter twice, his surprise turning quickly to realisation and then anger as he considers the arrival of this rather bizarre letter. Still it never hurts to be certain of the facts before jumping in blindly; that kind of thing is for idiots and Gryffindors.

 

‘I thought you said you hadn’t applied for Auror training?’ Draco asks, refolding the insidious missive and sliding it back across the table to Harry.

 

‘I didn’t,’ Harry says, shooting the letter a filthy look, opting to leave it on the table and instead retrieving his hot chocolate.

 

‘Well, in that case, the Ministry are even more recreant than I expected,’ Draco says, sipping his chocolate and enjoying the rich, sweet liquid.

 

‘I suspect that is some kind of insult,’ Harry says with a hint of a smile, ‘and I don’t think they meant anything by it, I’m sure they just wanted to give me a chance. They probably don’t know how bad the knee is,’ Harry shrugs.

 

‘You don’t think – ’ Draco bites down on his lip, realising that the sound that he has just managed is something between a squeal and a shout and not a dignified way to have this kind of discussion. Harry is looking at him wide-eyed now and to be honest he can’t blame him. ‘Sorry,’ he apologises, pleased when his voice sounds calm and measured. ‘It’s just that if you don’t think that they have done this on purpose then you belong in Hufflepuff.’

 

Harry looks like he is about to protest, but Draco carries on. ‘It isn’t a coincidence you received your letter a week after Ron, you know? They waited, Harry. They waited to see if your application had arrived late and when they realised that you weren’t going to apply, they sent you this, telling you that you can do everything you’ve ever wanted to do, you don’t even have to finish your NEWTs if you don’t want to, without even considering that this could get you killed!’ Draco finishes, knowing that, by the end, he is practically shouting, but finding he is beyond caring.

 

‘I’m sure they would have changed their minds the first time my knee dropped me on my arse during training,’ Harry reasons and, in the back of his mind, Draco wonders when Harry became the calm one in this conversation. Draco was almost certain it had started out the other way around.

 

‘Oh, you think?’ Draco asks, and all of a sudden he is standing, apparently unable to express how strongly he feels about this while still seated. ‘Do you know what I think? I think that they would have kept rolling you out, telling you that it would get better, until one day you’d be out in the field and it would give way and in the couple of seconds it took you to adjust to suddenly being on the ground, some dark wizard will have taken you out. They are nothing but a bunch of duplicitous reprobates, Harry.’

 

‘Not all of them,’ Harry argues. ‘Arthur works for the Ministry, and I know Kingsley, he’s honourable.’

 

‘I’m not talking about individuals, Harry,’ Draco says, running his fingers through his hair as he paces in front of the fire, frustrated at his inability to make Harry understand. ‘I’m sure lots of people enter the Ministry with the intention of making a difference, and I’m sure they do good work, but the nefarious boot-lickers are everywhere, using their positions to profit or help each other out.

 

‘They protect each other, a network of villains, all occupying important jobs, but nothing too visible. You won’t find any under-secretaries or minsters involved these days, the downfall of Fudge saw to that, they’ll be department heads or senior officers, with enough power to grease the wheels or to make something disappear for the right price.’

 

‘Why would you think that?’ Harry asks, frowning.

 

‘I don’t think it Harry, I know it. I don’t know names, but I know that my father had contacts all over the Ministry, in every department. Your testimony and intervention helped reduce his sentence, it’s true, but if he had ever threatened to expose his contacts, you can be certain that no matter what Harry Potter had to say, both he and my mother would be in Azkaban for life. It wouldn’t come from those he was accusing, either, it would come from someone else who had been offered a pay-off or a promotion in order to ensure that one of the Mugwumps decided that the only option was a hard-line, zero-tolerance policy.

 

‘I’ve seen it and I know that the Ministry will do anything to improve their sullied reputation at the moment, even if that includes putting your life in danger so that they can look a little shinier and a little less like a cartel of saturnalian malefactors,’ Draco finishes, realising that he is slightly breathless, and dropping back down into his chair.

 

‘So, you feel quite passionately about this?’ Harry deadpans.

 

Draco just looks at him for a moment or two before he feels the bubble of amusement rising in his chest. He presses his lips together, trying not to smile, but it’s useless and the laughter breaks free at the same moment as a smile spreads across Harry’s face. They laugh. They laugh until they are panting and gripping their sides in an attempt to suppress a stitch. They laugh until the tears run down their faces.

 

Eventually, when the laughter has faded to the occasional hiccough, Harry rises and rounds the table to perch on the arm of Draco’s chair.

 

‘Thank you for helping,’ he smiles, placing a warm hand on Draco’s shoulder, which immediately stifles the last of Draco’s giggles and leaves him focussing fully on Harry’s touch.

 

‘I already knew the Auror thing wasn’t going to happen, but the letter seemed like false hope, like it was taunting me; now, I feel sorry for Ron, committing himself to work in such a vipers’ nest.’

 

‘Glad to be of service,’ Draco says, his voice barely above a whisper as he gazes up at Harry. Harry, however, either doesn’t notice, or he chooses not to as he gives Draco’s shoulder a quick squeeze and pushes up from the arm and turns away.

 

‘Though I still have no idea what I am going to do after we leave here,’ he says stretching so far that the edge of his shirt rides up, exposing a thin band of smooth olive skin that makes Draco want to lean forward and lick it. Dragging his eyes away, he tries to focus instead on Harry’s lack of direction. He thinks he may have an idea, but he’s going to need some help.


	16. part sixteen

# Prompt #16 - butterbeer

# Wednesday December 16th 1998

# All Advice Welcome

 

Draco nudges the last of the chairs into place, forming a large semi-circle around the fire, and starts rearranging the bottles of warm Butterbeer into neat rows. He is hoping that the opportunity to come and have a drink in the eighth-year common room will be enough of a treat for the day’s activity.

 

‘What on earth is going on here?’ Harry asks, appearing on the stairs from the dormitories and pausing to look around the re-organised room.

 

‘We are having guests,’ Draco informs him before turning to poke at the fire.

 

‘What about Neville?’ Harry asks, finally stepping into the room and bringing with him the freshly-showered scent of eucalyptus.

 

‘Neville is currently having trouble with the Snargaluff Sapling for his Herbology project and he is planning to spend the day in the greenhouse, reading it calming stories. I did ask him before I set this up, you know,’ Draco says, slightly offended that Harry thinks he would just take over the common room without checking first.

 

‘Okay then,’ Harry says, dropping down into an armchair and reaching for a piece of gingerbread. Draco instinctively slaps the back of Harry’s hand and he draws it back sharply, looking up at Draco with a wounded expression.

 

‘Wait for the guests, they’ll be here in a few minutes,’ Draco chastises.

 

‘But, Draco, I didn’t get any breakfast,’ Harry protests.

 

‘It isn’t my fault you didn’t get out of bed until half past nine, you lazy sod,’ Draco retorts, turning away so that he isn’t drawn in by Harry’s pleading expression. Unfortunately, this gives Harry the opportunity to pilfer from the plate and, moments later, he can hear Harry’s satisfied crunching. Luckily for them both there is a knock at the common room door and Draco is spared having to resort to ineffectual scolding.

 

Ten minutes later, the chairs are full, all the students having helped themselves to Butterbeer, and the young people are taking the opportunity to glance around at the eighth-year common room in the way he remembers looking at the staff room the first time he visited it.

 

Getting to his feet, Draco easily commands the attention of the group and the low-level chatter comes to a stop.

 

‘I’m sure you are all wondering why I have asked you here today,’ he says, addressing the group and trying not be unnerved to suddenly be the focus of fifteen sets of eyes. His father had always encouraged him to become comfortable with public speaking, of course, but there is an intensity involved in speaking with children that isn’t there with adults.

 

‘The truth is,’ he continues, ‘I would like you to help me with a little problem that has arisen. Harry, here,’ he says, gesturing and catching Harry’s alarmed expression out of the corner of his eye, ‘has recently come to the conclusion that the career he had intended to pursue on leaving Hogwarts is no longer suitable for him and now he is out of ideas. I thought, as you are all just starting to think about what you might like to do when you leave Hogwarts, you might be able to inspire him. Does anyone have any questions?’

 

‘Yeah,’ says a dark-haired boy Draco thinks is called Daryl, who has abandoned the chairs to sit on the floor nearer to the table. ‘Why is this gingerbread such strange shapes?’

 

‘I’m afraid that is one question I can’t answer,’ Draco replies solemnly. ‘I was sworn to secrecy,’ he adds, thinking of the elf, Winky, and her panicked insistence that she would only be able to provide Draco with the off-cuts from the gingerbread Hogwarts if he didn’t tell a soul about it.

 

‘Right, who would like to start?’ he asks as he settles into a chair next to a fiercely blushing Harry.

 

‘I want to be a dragon tamer,’ say Daryl decisively, ‘then maybe I can ride on the back of a dragon like you did,’ he says with enthusiasm and adoration as he gazes up at Harry.

 

‘There you go,’ Draco says, nudging Harry with his elbow. ‘You could become a dragon tamer. Between the Gringotts escape and the Horntail, you’re obviously a natural.’

 

‘I think I’ve probably had my fill of dragons,’ Harry says, no longer blushing and instead trying to suppress his amusement. Daryl, on the other hand, just looks confused, at though he cannot quite understand this concept.

 

‘I want to be a Quidditch player,’ says a blonde girl with a high pony-tail.

 

‘I’m sure you’ll be an excellent player, Jasmine,’ Harry says. ‘I’ve seen you during the Gryffindor practices and you’re a natural. The team is lucky to have you.’

 

‘We’d be luckier if you were still playing,’ she says wistfully. ‘Is it true you were scouted by the Falcons?’

 

Harry shuffles in his seat. ‘I don’t really fancy professional Quidditch. I think I’ll enjoy it more if it’s just something I do for fun.’

 

Draco looks at him, a questioning eyebrow raised. ‘That doesn’t really answer the question, does it?’ he asks under his breath.

 

‘It’s irrelevant,’ Harry mutters back. ‘I turned them down.’

 

‘Well, my Dad is a doctor, and I’ve always wanted to be one too, ever since I was tiny,’ says Olivia, eyes wide. ‘The thing is, I need to be have biology and anatomy and things like that to be a doctor, and I’m not going to learn that at Hogwarts, so I think I might have to be something else as well,’ she adds, looking sympathetically at Harry.

 

‘There’s no reason you couldn’t be a Healer. It’s just the wizarding version of a doctor,’ he explains, and he is delighted when she brightens at the suggestion.

 

‘I think my dad would love that,’ she says enthusiastically.

 

‘I want to be an actor,’ says Flynn, and Draco isn’t at all surprised. The boy can make a drama out of having eggs for breakfast. Still, Draco looks to see what Harry thinks of the suggestion.

 

‘No,’ Harry says flatly, ‘that one definitely is not for me.’

 

‘I want to be a psychologist, and work with dangerous criminals,’ offers Heather, a wide-eyed, innocent looking girl who is now in her third year, but still looks too young to be at Hogwarts at all.

 

‘Okay then,’ Draco says, drawing the words out, unsure of what to say to that.

 

‘That’s different,’ Harry says, smiling at her, ‘it’s obviously something you’re passionate about.’

 

Heather nods enthusiastically. Draco watches as, next to her, Lucy seems to draw further and further back into her seat.

 

‘What about you, Lucy? What do you want to do?’ Draco asks, determined to get her involved in the discussion.

 

‘Get as far away from here as I can,’ Lucy mutters, and Draco sags slightly. He knows that he was being uncharacteristically optimistic to assume that a Christmas spent at Hogwarts and a shopping trip with her Dad was going to make everything better for Lucy, but he has to admit, her joviality on the way back from Hogsmeade on Sunday had made him hopeful.

 

‘You could be a curse-breaker,’ Harry suggests, his tone soothing. ‘They spend most of their time in Egypt, investigating the tombs, and it’s all very exciting.’

 

Draco is relieved to see her smile a little at this and soon she is laughing along with the rest as the group continue to suggest more and more outlandish careers for Harry.

 

Later, when the children have returned to their common rooms and Draco is adjusting the furniture back into its original positions, Harry, who has been collecting up empty bottles and vanishing stray crumbs, pauses in his work and turns to look at him. Before he really knows what is happening, Draco is being pulled into a firm hug and his breath catches in his chest, his sense of equilibrium stolen away as he feels Harry’s body pressed against his, feels Harry’s breath against his neck.

‘Thank you so much for today,’ he whispers, the words tickling pleasantly against Draco’s ear. ‘I may not have found myself a new career yet, but I realise now that I can be whatever I want to.’ Harry squeezes him tightly for a moment and steps back, returning to his collection of the Butterbeer bottles, his flushed neck the only sign that the hug has affected him too.


	17. part seventeen

# Prompt #17 - a Hogwarts trunk

# Thursday December 17th, 1998

‘What are you doing?’ Harry asks from his bed, where he is lounging and reading Draco’s copy of _Quidditch Quarterly_.

 

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ Draco asks back, not looking up from where his is rummaging in his trunk and extracting piles of robes and trousers and jumpers and placing them on his bed.

 

‘It looks like you’ve decided to relocate the contents of your trunk onto your bed,’ Harry says, swivelling around to lie on his stomach and watch Draco.

 

‘Why would I do that?’ Draco asks, frowning at Harry and smoothing the creases from a set of dress robes.

 

‘I don’t know, Draco, I gave up asking questions like that a while ago,’ Harry says, smiling lazily and stretching. ‘Though I can’t help wondering where you’re going to sleep when you’ve finished laying out everything you own in colour order.’

 

‘Don’t be facetious,’ Draco chides, ‘and I’m packing ready for the Weasleys’ if you must know.’

 

‘Why? That’s not until the day after tomorrow,’ Harry says, obviously confused, and Draco sighs.

 

‘As I am certain we have discussed before, we are not all you and we don’t all just leave everything until the last possible minute. Besides, I have no idea what I’m going to need.’

 

‘For what?’ Harry asks, confused.

 

‘Oh, give me strength, what have we just been talking about? What am I going to need for the Weasleys’?’

 

Harry looks at him blankly for a moment or two.

 

‘Wellington boots,’ Harry says firmly, and Draco feels himself start to panic a little. He is quite certain he has never owned a pair of wellington boots. And what about a cagoule? You’ll need a cagoule,’ Harry continues.

 

Draco’s anxiety rises; he doesn’t even know what a cagoule is.

 

‘And some waterproof matches, of course, oh, and a tent,’ Harry adds.

 

‘What?’ Draco asks, beginning to wonder what he’s got himself into.

 

‘Relax, Draco; I’m joking,’ Harry laughs. Draco just scowls at him. ‘Take whatever you want. Normal clothes, oh, and you might want to bring your broom, there will almost certainly be some kind of impromptu Quidditch match over the holiday,’ Harry says, adding the last as an afterthought.

 

‘See, it wasn’t a stupid question. Despite your sarcasm, I wouldn’t have thought to bring my broom,’ Draco says indignantly, selecting his Quidditch gloves and a warm scarf from the piles. ‘Will I need my dress robes?’ he asks, glancing at the four sets hanging from the top of his bed.

 

‘What for?’ Harry asks, looking at Draco with surprise.

 

‘For Christmas lunch?’ Draco asks, thinking that Harry is being particularly obtuse at this point.

 

‘I think you will look a little overdressed if you wear dress robes at any point during your visit to the Burrow.’

 

‘Why? What are you wearing for Christmas Day?’ Draco asks.

 

‘Jeans and my Weasley jumper,’ Harry says as though Draco should have realised this, ‘which I imagine is exactly what you’ll be wearing; there is no way Molly won’t have made you a jumper if you’re coming to stay.’

 

Taking a deep breath, Draco suppresses the, ‘not a chance’ that he is tempted to say, and when he thinks about it, he realises that that would be his father’s reaction. In truth, the idea that Molly has rushed a Christmas jumper off for him, to make him feel included, is incredibly touching.

 

‘What about the party thing on Christmas Eve?’ Draco asks, deciding that the only gracious option is to accept his inevitable date with a Weasley jumper.

 

‘Jeans and a shirt,’ Harry answers.

 

‘I’m beginning to sense a theme,’ Draco says, glancing at the piles of smart trousers and the single pair of Muggle jeans he had bought rebelliously two days after his father had been incarcerated. He thinks might have to obtain some more jeans by owl order.

 

‘What was Christmas like at the Manor?’ Harry asks, rolling on to his back and looking at Draco upside down. The question catches Draco be surprise and he pushes aside a stack of sweaters to perch on the edge of the bed.

 

‘Well, on Christmas Eve, Mother would host a cocktail party. It was all very beautiful, very elegant. A string quartet would play in the ballroom, there would be champagne and canapés, dull conversation and more obnoxious people than you could shake a stick at.

 

‘On Christmas Day, we would sit in the formal parlour, dressed in our very best clothes whilst we opened our gifts. This was followed by a seven course meal with lots of ridiculously fancy food and after that, my father would become obnoxiously drunk and tell my mother and I how disappointed he was with us.’

 

‘Well, that sounds festive,’ Harry says, wrinkling his nose.

 

‘I suppose it’s just a matter of what you’re used to,’ Draco suggests, turning back to his packing.

 

‘Well,’ Harry says, flicking open the magazine again, ‘this Christmas is going to look nothing at all like that.’

 

Draco is relieved.


	18. part eighteen

Prompt #18 - snow animals

 

Friday December 18th,1998

 

Snow Business

 

‘Draco? Draco?’ Harry starts shouting the moment he enters the common room.

 

Draco, reclining on his bed, allows the book he has been reading to fall to his chest, but makes no attempt to shout back. Harry will find him soon enough, and there is no need for him to holler like a market-trader to ensure this.

 

Draco thinks that the weak winter sunlight that is currently filtering through the window and pooling at his feet, might be responsible for the sudden upward spiralling of Harry’s mood. For the past four days, the snow has been swirling around the castle in dizzying flurries and ensuring that it hasn’t become properly light at any point.

 

This morning, however, the grounds are covered in a blanket of sparkling white. The dark trees of the forest and stone of the castle are all topped with a heavy layer of snow. It looks as though somebody has painted the world in monochrome, with the sole exception of the sky, which has turned a clear blue.

 

‘Draco?’ Harry calls again, finally bursting into the dormitory, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with excitement. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’ he asks, practically vibrating with enthusiasm as he stands in the doorway, gripping the frame tightly as though it is the only thing anchoring him in place.

 

‘Harry, Hagrid heard you calling, but had I responded, you wouldn’t have heard me over your own frantic yelling, so I simply waited to be found,’ Draco says, making a good show of appearing aloof. Harry just continues to grin, however, apparently not dissuaded.

 

‘I’ve had an idea about what we should do with the kids today,’ Harry says in rush, obviously unwilling to give any thought to Draco’s disparaging tone.

 

‘And what might that be?’ Draco asks, beginning to catch some of Harry’s enthusiasm and reflecting it back at him.

 

‘Guess!’ Harry insists.

 

‘Um, okay, milk a cow? Sharpen some icicles? Rear some chickens? Write a novel? Teach the house-elves to ice-skate? Am I close?’ Draco asks, letting his mind run free.

 

‘Not even slightly, you oddball,’ Harry says, looking at Draco with something like affection. ‘We are having a snowman contest.’

 

‘I haven’t built a snowman since I was about six!’ Draco says, thinking about the time his father had caught him playing in the snow. Apparently, behaviour like that was not dignified for a Malfoy.

 

‘Well, then,’ Harry says, practically bouncing across the room to pull Draco to his feet. ‘You have a few years to catch up on.’

 

Out on the lawns, the snow is even deeper than Draco had first suspected, and even at its shallowest parts, it still comes right above his knees. Both he and Harry spend a good twenty minutes applying wellington charms to all the children in an attempt to prevent frostbite, and then they are running here there and everywhere, plunging into drifts, gathering snow and squabbling over twigs and smooth stones.

 

‘I was thinking,’ Draco says as he watches Harry bend and begin to gather snow in his bare hands. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t make snowmen. We don’t want ours to be compared to the kids’, after all, do we?’

 

‘You’re probably right,’ Harry says, his smile dropping slightly, and immediately Draco wants the words back, anything to put the expression of sheer joy back on Harry’s face.

 

‘Why don’t we make snow animals instead?’ Draco suggests, relieved to see Harry grinning again.

 

‘Okay,’ he says and immediately he begins marking out an area for his creature.

 

Draco watches as Harry begins to pile snow up, considering and discarding animal after animal and trying to come up with something that is not too complex. He is just beginning to think that his best bet is to make a shark’s fin and levitate onto some untouched snow when he looks down and spots the Malfoy crest on his cloak, and there, winding around the top, is the answer.

 

Carefully, he begins packing snow into a long ridge before rounding and tapering. He uses a small stick to make markings on the snake’s back and then moves on to making the blunt triangular head.

 

He works hard, throwing himself into his task. He moves so much snow that he begins to feel sticky despite the freezing temperatures, and the cold air burns in his throat, but he keeps going, shaping and smoothing, until it begins to resemble a snake.

 

Finally, flush with accomplishment, he calls out. ‘Harry, what do you think?’ he asks, looking up at last.

 

Harry turns around, smile broad, and comes across to admire Draco’s creation. Draco, on the other hand, cannot take his eyes off the thing that Harry has created, and, now that he notices, neither can anyone else.

 

Harry, apparently oblivious to the attention he is receiving, enthuses about Draco’s snow animal, as though it is the best thing he has ever seen. ‘The head is fantastic,’ he says, apparently still unaware that anything is amiss. ‘And I love the tongue, I think it looks pretty realistic. In fact...’ he draws his wand, casts something at the snow creature and, to Draco’s surprise, it raises its head.

 

Harry hisses something to it and it begins to slither about, the sunlight glittering off the snow as its long, sinuous body moves.

 

‘Oh,’ Draco says, delighted, as the snake slithers around his feet. ‘That’s fantastic, as is that,’ he says, pointing to where Harry has created a majestic looking stag.

 

‘You think?’ Harry asks, rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment. ‘I thought its back legs were a little stocky.’

 

‘I think you need new glasses,’ Draco says, rolling his eyes. ‘So, are you going to set him free? Let him canter?’ he asks and Harry looks surprised, as thought this idea hadn’t occurred to him.

 

‘Oh, okay,’ he agrees and focuses on performing the spell that has the stag tossing his antlers and stomping his feet before trotting off to frolic in the snow in a most undignified way.

 

Draco stands beside Harry, watching as the snake and the stag move across the untouched snow without leaving any marks and the children laugh delightedly as they race past.

 

‘I know this isn’t the first time I have mentioned this but I’m going to say it again,’ Draco says as he watches the stag lower its antlers into fresh powder and use them to shower gleeful students with snow. ‘You are really good at this stuff.’

 

‘What stuff?’ Harry asks, sounding confused

 

‘This creative stuff, you idiot,’ Draco points out, trying not to sound too exasperated.

 

‘Oh, thanks,’ Harry says, and again his hand is rubbing at the back of his neck.

 

There is silence for a minute or two as Draco waits for Harry to make the leap that he wants him to make; eventually, though, Draco has no choice but to point it out. ‘Have you ever considered that maybe this is what you need to do?’ he asks with a sigh.

 

‘What? Make snow animals? Kind of seasonal, isn’t it?’ Harry asks and Draco looks at him, assuming that he is being facetious, horrified when he realises that he is, in fact, serious.

 

‘No, you cretin, you should be an artist,’ Draco says, bending down and scooping up a fistful of snow to fling at Harry’s head.

 

‘I don’t think you can just _choose_ to be an artist,’ Harry says, shaking the snow from his hair. ‘I think it just kind of happens.’

 

‘Of course you choose to be an artist. You choose to buy paint or wood or clay and then, instead of building a house, you choose to make something beautiful with it.’

 

‘I never really thought of it like that,’ Harry admits, looking thoughtful. ‘Still, who would want to buy art from me?’

 

‘Sometimes, Harry,’ Draco says, raising his gloved hand to his face and pressing it against his eyes, ‘Sometimes I completely despair of you.’


	19. part nineteen

Prompt #19 - Howarts dressed for Christmas

 

Saturday December 19th, 1998

 

The Voice of Experience

 

_Toad in the hole_ , Draco thinks, as he descends the marble stairs towards the Entrance Hall. The screech-scrape of dinner in the Great Hall and the savoury smell of sausages fill the air and make Draco’s stomach rumble, but he knows better than to Apparate on a full stomach, and besides, Harry has told him that Mrs Weasley is preparing dinner for them, and apparently, ‘I’ve just eaten’ isn’t the excuse that Draco thinks it is.

 

Draco wanders into the centre of the Entrance Hall and stops. He has no idea how long Harry is going to be but he knows that had he stayed upstairs, listening to the chaos of Harry attempting to pack everything, he was going to have an aneurism.

 

When he had announced that he would wait in the Entrance Hall, he had done so to Harry’s feet, which had been protruding from under the bed as Harry gathered every last Christmas gift from their many and varied hiding places around the dorm.

 

He smiles as he looks around and realises that, in all his time at Hogwarts, he doesn’t think he has ever really just taken a moment to stop and truly appreciate the beauty of the castle dressed for Christmas.

 

‘This is going to be the last chance,’ he murmurs to himself as he takes in the enormous swags of holly, ivy and evergreen that hang from the stairs, adorned with gold ribbons, twinkling lights and dusted with charmed snow.

 

By the time he returns from the Burrow, the decorations will be gone, and it will be a hard slog through winter and spring, preparing for NEWTS.

 

Stepping forward, he peers through the doors to the Great Hall and watches as the students sit, enjoying their dinner, chattering with friends and sharing jokes. He watches the staff and smiles as Sinistra whispers something to Flitwick which causes him to cough and splutter with amusement.

 

As always, his eye is drawn to those who aren’t there, to Snape and Dumbledore, two people who worked tirelessly to protect him, to save him from his father’s insanity.

 

This place has given him so many things: friends, a home, safety, a second chance... Harry.

 

He almost jumps when Lucy steps into the doorway and he certainly takes a step back, embarrassed at being caught in such a sentimental moment. He smiles at her and begins to turn away, to peer up the stairs and wonder what is taking Harry such an obscenely long time, but she stops him, her voice nervous and uncertain as she says his name.

 

‘Are you going home for Christmas now?’ she asks, and she seems different, as though her bravado has been stripped away.

 

‘Not home, but to a friend’s; yes, I am,’ Draco says, smiling at her.

 

She stands there quietly for a moment, just looking at him, and Draco is about to make an excuse and go off in search of Harry again when she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

‘I wanted to thank you,’ she says, and Draco has to strain to hear her. ‘You and Harry, actually, for all the stuff that you’ve been doing with us. It’s been nice to have things to take my mind off everything.’

 

‘You’re welcome, Lucy,’ Draco smiles, a feeling of warmth and accomplishment growing in his chest. ‘I’ve actually had a lot of fun; there were a lot of things I’d never done before.’

 

‘Because of your father?’ she asks, still more timid than Draco has ever seen her.

 

‘Because of my father,’ he confirms.

 

‘It’s helped, you know,’ she says, looking at her shoes now, apparently unwilling to meet Draco’s eyes. ‘Just knowing that there’s someone who really understands, and I wanted you to know that I’m sorry.’

 

‘For what?’ Draco asks, surprised.

 

‘For being such a pain. I just get so cross at times and then I feel the need to do something, I feel like doing something that she wouldn’t like... to punish her.’

 

‘I completely understand that,’ Draco says, thinking of Harry and what Lucius would say if he could see how close they have become, thinking of the coloured sweaters and dark jeans in his bag, and knowing how angry his father would be if he could see him wearing something not black. He knows he doesn’t do these things just to make him mad; he knows he does them because they make him happy, but if they didn’t, he knows he would find something else that would annoy his father just as much.

 

‘And besides, you really weren’t as bad as all that,’ he adds, deciding to perch on the stairs and inviting Lucy to join him.

 

‘Before I knew Harry, I was an absolute tosspot,’ he says honestly, smiling when Lucy gasps quietly at his choice of words. He doesn’t think she’s innocent by any means, but he remembers how shocked he’d been the first time he’d heard a teacher swear. The honour had fallen to Professor Vector when she’d managed to place a stack of marked essays by an open window on a breezy day.

 

‘It took me almost six years, Lucy, to realise that I was just being an utter twat and even then, I had to have it pointed out to me,’ he says as some of the horrendous things he has said and done flit through his mind, bringing with them the familiar feeling of shame.

 

‘I wanted to hurt people, I made myself as unlikeable as possible and was cruel and mean, but in the end, it didn’t hurt my father at all, it just hurt me. It isolated me, and when things got bad, I felt there was nowhere I could turn. People didn’t notice that I was struggling, because I never let them get close enough to help,’ Draco says, unsure why he is telling her all this. ‘In the end, the person who helped me was the person I thought was my worst enemy.’

 

‘Harry?’ she asks.

 

‘Harry,’ he confirms.

 

‘Did you not have a best friend or anything?’ she asks, eyes wide.

 

‘I had a couple, but with them, I always just pretended everything was okay. They asked but they were my friends, they didn’t want to push. Harry wasn’t afraid to push, after all, he was already my enemy, what did he have to lose?’

 

‘Do you think I’m like that?’ she asks, and her tone is worried, not accusatory.

 

‘I don’t, nor do I think you risk becoming so; you are a lot more self-aware than I ever was at your age and, more importantly, you are willing to accept help when it is offered. All you need to do now is ask for help when you need it and you’ll be set,’ Draco smiles.

 

‘I’ll try,’ she says, smiling and getting to her feet. ‘Thanks for everything, Draco, Merry Christmas.’

 

‘Merry Christmas to you, too, Lucy,’ Draco smiles, pleased that he has managed to be of some help.

 

‘Merry Christmas, Harry,’ she calls, looking past Draco and making him turn. At the top of the stairs with a stupid grin on his face is Harry, and Draco wonders just how long he’s been standing there.

 

‘Merry Christmas, Lucy,’ he says, coming to stand next to Draco and watching as the girl darts past him up the stairs. ‘Nice chat?’ he asks Draco with a grin that tells him he had been there for a while.

 

‘It’s impolite to eavesdrop, you know,’ Draco says as they make their way across the Entrance Hall and down the steps.

 

‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just didn’t want to interrupt. You seemed to be having quite a serious conversation.’

 

‘Potato, potahto,’ Draco says, stepping out into the icy night, ready for adventure.


	20. part twenty

Prompt #20 - mince pies and mulled wine/punch

Sunday December 20th

 

A Lesson in Contrasts

 

Draco leans back in the creaky wooden chair and wraps his hands around his cup of tea, feeling content. It has been a long time since he considered the Weasleys an uncultured and impoverished rabble, as his father had once claimed, but he doesn’t think he has ever been somewhere as comfortable as this in his life.

 

Yes, everything is a little worn, but it is warm and bright and friendly. It is a place where people laugh and chat, where everyone pitches in and where you are never without a cup of tea.

 

The house bears the marks of eight children having grown up there as a badge of pride. From where he is sitting, he can see the wall where each of the children’s height has been marked, every midsummer, according to Harry. Also, according to Harry, this practice still goes on, and Bill had received the teasing of his life last summer when he had apparently managed to shrink by half an inch. He has managed to claim that it is all sorts of things, from werewolf genes to the kind of shoe he was wearing but Mrs Weasley was having none of it and insists it is all to do with his posture. In the twenty-four hours Draco has been at the Burrow, Mrs Weasley has told Bill to stand up straight no less than ten times.

 

There are so many differences between the Burrow and the Manor that Draco thinks he may drown in the newness of it all. The biggest difference of all, though, is the noise. The Manor is silent; it always has been. There is no shouting in the Manor; the house-elves speak in hushed voices when they speak at all and, more often than not, the only sounds to be heard are the rush of the wind in the chimney and the clang of the Grandfather clock in the hall.

 

Here, he doesn’t think he has experienced silence since he arrived. Dinner last night had been a noisy affair, even with Ron and Hermione still away and Fred and George at the shop. At the Manor, dinner conversation was faultlessly polite and kept to a minimum; here there are twelve different conversations taking place at any one time and Draco has found himself expected to contribute to all of them. And this is without Ginevra’s accusatory cries as Charlie once again attempts to pilfer potatoes from her plate, or Molly’s continued attempts to get everyone to eat more.

 

Even when he had settled down into the small but incredibly comfortable bed in the room he is sharing with Harry, the noise hadn’t stopped. The house creaks and the plumbing rattles and the ghoul in the attic had wailed so much he thought he might never get to sleep. He had, of course, as soon as he had become used to the noises, and he had managed a fantastic night’s sleep.

 

The experience is also a lot more tactile than he has ever known. Over the past few months, he has had to learn to accept the occasional hugs from Harry, the much more frequent ones from Hermione and the fearsome shoulder slaps from Ron, but here, everyone wants to hug him or smack him amicably on the shoulder so frequently he has to admit that his is concerned that by the time he returns to school, he will be black and blue.It’s certainly a long way from his father’s firm handshakes and his mother’s genteel kisses. No, everything here is louder, more robust, more familiar and, much to his surprise, Draco is finding he quite likes it.

 

What he has liked the most, however, is watching Harry. It has never struck him before how little Harry really relaxes; it’s as though even when he is asleep he is poised, ready for the next curse, ready to leap up and defend the people he loves. Here, he seems at ease, and Draco can’t help but feel like this is the way one is supposed to feel with their family.

 

‘What _are_ you thinking about?’ Harry asks, entering the kitchen through the back door, a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm and his hair bearing the evidence of the flurries of snow that have started to fall.

 

‘Nothing,’ Draco says, watching as Harry divests himself of coat and shoes before going in hunt of a saucepan. ‘Why?’ he asks.

 

‘You had the strangest look on your face,’ Harry says, uncorking the bottle and pouring the entire contents into the pan.

 

‘Huh,’ Draco says, frustrated that this is the second time in the last two days he has been caught mooning like a sentimental fool.He thinks he might be going soft. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, brushing the thought aside and sitting up straighter in his seat.Harry emerges from the cupboard he has been rummaging in, his hands full of jars.

 

‘Making some mulled wine for when Ron and Hermione get here,’ he says, methodically adding something from each of the jars to the pan before grabbing an orange and slicing into it.

 

‘Where are Molly and Arthur?’ Draco asks, suddenly wondering if Molly is going to object to Harry taking over her kitchen.

 

‘They’re at Arthur’s work friend Perkins’ for drinks, Charlie is out with a friend, Ginny is working late at the shop with the twins, trying to organise the last pre-christmas delivery, and Percy has an early meeting tomorrow so he’s staying in London tonight. It’s just us.’

 

‘I may not know her well, but I am surprised that Molly was willing to go out, knowing that they were arriving tonight,’ Draco says, rising from his chair and following the rich spicy scent across the kitchen to peer into the pan that Harry is now stirring gently with a wooden spoon.

 

‘Well...’ Harry says, and Draco raises an eyebrow. ‘She doesn’t know they’re coming,’ Harry says, looking guilty. ‘It was a favour to Hermione,’ he explains. ‘She loves the Weasleys, but she can be a bit fractious after intercontinental travel, so Ron and I decided that it would be better for everyone if it was just us here when they turned up. Charlie and Ginny know the truth, of course, they know their mother well enough to know that everyone needs a little quiet time occasionally, but we couldn’t tell Molly that Hermione finds her fussing a little trying when she’s tired, so Ron set their return date to that of their annual get together with Perkins and then told Molly and Arthur that they were coming in a day later.’

 

‘That’s all very impressive, but Molly is going to notice them when she gets home; do you have an explanation for why they are home early?’ Draco asks, impressed that this piece of subterfuge has come from the three most Gryffindor of Gryffindors, but not trusting them not to have left a massive hole in the plan.

 

‘Storms,’ Harry says simply, obviously very proud of himself.

 

‘Storms?’ Draco asks.

 

‘The Pacific is famous for its storms this time of year. Molly is a natural worrier and this is only heightened by things she’s unfamiliar with. Hermione will tell her there was a big storm forecast for tomorrow and they came home early to avoid it. She’ll be so caught up by the horrors of typhoons that she’ll be completely distracted from anything we might have missed.’

 

‘Impressive,’ Draco says, leaning back against the counter and revelling in the warm feeling that he has been in some way included in this little plot. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

 

‘Fish some of the mince pies out of the pantry, will you?’ Harry asks. ‘You know Ron, he’ll be famished.’

 

It isn’t long before Ron and Hermione are clattering into the kitchen, wrapped in heavy coats and shivering fiercely. Hermione hugs them both tightly before heading straight towards the fire, and for a change, Ron, too, abandons the backslap and catches both Harry and Draco in brief but firm hugs.

 

‘How did it go? Ron asks, unwrapping his scarf to reveal a nose that has turned decidedly pink. ‘She doesn’t suspect anything, does she?’

 

‘Not a thing, mate,’ Harry says, passing Rom a cup of mulled wine and offering him the plate of mince pies. ‘What happened to your face?’ he asks, amusement barely contained.

 

Draco picks up his and Hermione’s cups and takes them over to her, understanding that the change between the Australian summer and the British winter must be quite an unpleasant shock.

 

He has barely had chance to hand over her drink, however, before she is leaning in close and whispering to him urgently. ‘So, how’s it going?’ she asks, wrapping both her hands around the cup and sipping at the drink.

 

‘Hello to you, too, Hermione, it’s lovely to see you. Did you have a nice time in Australia?’ Draco teases, amused.

 

‘Never mind that,’ she insists, throwing a look in Harry direction and ensuring that he and Ron are still involved in their discussion. ‘How’s it going with Harry?’ she asks.

 

‘Hermione, I can’t even begin to know how to answer that question,’ Draco says, thinking of their almost kiss, of lying together in the snow, of their little glances and secret smiles.

 

‘Have you told him how you feel?’ she asks slowly, as if she thinks Draco is particularly dim.

 

‘Of course I bloody haven’t, I’m not insane,’ he says a little louder than he means to, drawing the attention of Harry and Ron, who wander over to join them, quickly involving them in Ron’s vivid description about the peculiarities of Australian food.

 

Hermione just gives Draco a significant look, and he knows he’s going to have to do something.Otherwise, Hermione might just do it for him.


	21. part twenty-one

Prompt #21 - a hot bath

 

Monday December 21st, 1998

 

Steam

 

There are people everywhere. That is the conclusion Draco comes to as he wanders into the kitchen the next morning and sees a sea of red hair.

 

Charlie, who has returned from his night out a little worse for wear, seems to be barely avoiding taking a swim in his bowl of porridge. Ginevra, on the other hand, appears to be the possessor of boundless energy and, despite not having returned from the shop until gone midnight, she is now sitting at the table, nursing a cup of coffee and chatting animatedly with Hermione, who seems be describing a narrow escape with an enormous jellyfish.

 

Arthur is embroiled in a discussion about the many wonderful Muggle inventions Ron had encountered while staying with Hermione’s parents, and Harry appears to be listening with amusement.

 

Molly bustles around the whole scene, filling coffee cups and dishing out toast and doing it all with a smile that Draco is certain he would not be wearing if someone asked him to prepare breakfast for this many people.

 

A chair scrapes and Arthur gets up, draining the dregs of his cup before giving his wife a quick kiss and heading out side to Disapparate. The disturbance is enough for Harry to look up and spot Draco loitering in the door way, and he pushes out Arthur’s vacated chair with his foot.

 

Grateful that Harry isn’t abandoning him to find his own way, he takes the offered seat. No sooner is he seated, however, than coffee is quickly placed in front of him, followed by a bacon sandwich.

 

Ron, obviously noticing his surprise, leans in, ‘She’s always like this,’ he says, snatching another piece of toast from the rack. ‘You get used to it, dontcha, Harry?’

 

‘Sort of,’ Harry admits, ‘though I still fight with her over the washing-up from time to time.’

 

‘Do you win?’ Draco asks, curious.

 

‘What do you think?’ Harry says, amused. ‘I’ve never met anyone who’s won a fight with Molly.’

 

‘Shame she doesn’t feel the same way about me,’ Ron says dejectedly.

 

‘What do you mean?’ Draco asks, finally taking a messy bite of his bacon sandwich. It is delicious, of course, just like every other thing he has eaten here. It is also too big to believed.

 

‘Harry is special; he manages to be thought of as both a guest and a member of the family. I, on the other hand, am expected to help.’

 

‘And you’ll help today as well,’ Molly says, appearing suddenly behind Ron and leaning over him to remove the empty toast rack.

 

‘But, Mum,’ he pleads, sounding as pitiful as possible, ‘I’m still a bit jet-lagged, I might need to rest a little longer.’

 

‘Jetlagged!’ she scoffs, sliding an egg and a couple of sausages from a frying pan onto Draco’s plate. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense. You didn’t fly, Ronald. Besides there’s just two days now before the party and there is still far too much to do.’ Then, without missing a beat she turns to Draco. ‘Eat up, dear, you’re awfully thin.’

 

‘We’ll help, Molly,’ Harry says. ‘I can help with the food if you like?’

 

‘Oh, Harry, you’re such a good boy,’ she says, ruffling his hair. Harry smirks at Ron. ‘I’ll be starting that tomorrow; today, it’s the house, and you, Ron, need to de-gnome the garden.’ With that, she bustles away and Ron throws Harry a filthy look.

 

‘Great,’ Ron mutters, ‘just great. Now I still end up de-gnoming and you end up looking like you did all the work. You been teaching him the art of kissing-up, Draco?’ Ron asks.

 

Draco freezes; he knows that Ron isn’t trying to be insulting, but he can’t seem to get past the word _kissing_.

 

‘Oh, don’t you know it,’ Harry teases back. ‘He’s been teaching me all sorts of things.’

 

Draco chokes and, on his other side, Ginevra turns to slap him firmly on the back whilst Harry peers into his face, concerned.

 

‘You alright?’ he asks, pouring Draco a glass of juice and offering it to him.

 

‘I’m fine,’ Draco croaks before drinking deeply and desperately trying to rid himself of the slew of unhelpful images of just what he could teach Harry that are currently racing through his mind.

 

‘Right then,’ Harry says, pushing back from the table. ‘Time and tide and encroaching gnomes wait for no man.’

 

Draco smiles, recognising the quote, but Ron just looks at him, baffled.

 

‘It’s from the ‘Box of Delights’,’ Harry says, stretching and exposing his midriff. Draco looks away, flushing, but he thinks he catches Harry looking at him hopefully from the corner of his eye.

 

‘They’ll all be back by Christmas Eve, though,’ Harry points out as Draco follows him and Ron into the garden.

 

‘Sure,’ Ron admits, beginning to rummage in a nearby bush, ‘but they usually lie low for at least a week or so when they get back, so we probably won’t see them again until the new year.’

 

Behind them, Draco clears his throat and they both turn to look at him.

 

‘So, what exactly are we doing?’ he asks. He has heard of garden gnomes before, of course he has, but they had always fallen under the remit of the gardeners.

 

‘Well, when you find one you, um...’ Harry pauses, shoves his head into a rhododendron bush, and rummages around. ‘Aha,’ he declares and emerges from the bush with what looks like a gangly potato. It appears to be attempting to take a chunk out of his wrist.

 

‘Grab it by the legs,’ he instructs, shaking leaves from his hair. ‘Swing it round your head a few times,’ he instructs and Draco begins to suspect that he is enjoying himself. ‘Then just launch it,’ he declares and releases the gnome. Draco watches as it soars in a wide arc and lands just beyond the tree stump in the following field. ‘Aim for the stump,’ he adds as Ron launches his own gnome, sending it a good ten feet further than Harry’s.

 

Ron looks at Harry, arms folded and a smirk on his face.

 

‘Oh, it’s on!’ Harry insists, plunging back into the undergrowth.

 

Draco peers around a peony for his own gnome and when Harry remerges, clutching a particularly large and foul-mouthed specimen who seems eager to use every curse-word Draco knows (as well as some he doesn’t), he is holding a relatively small gnome at arm’s length and watching it as it struggles and gnashes tiny sharp teeth.

 

‘Isn’t this a little ...’ he trails off. Harry raises a questioning eyebrow and adjusts his grip on his particularly spirited gnome.

 

‘I don’t know,’ Draco shrugs, in response to Harry’s look. ‘It just seems a little cruel,’ he finishes, not quite able to believe what he’s saying.

 

‘It’s not really,’ Hermione reassures, emerging from the kitchen with a cup clutched in her hands, apparently with the sole intention of watching the de-gnoming. ‘It doesn’t hurt them, they choose to come back here, and to be honest, having seen a few de-gnomings now, I think they actually enjoy it. It’s like a game to them,’ she says, leaning back against the wall in a patch of weak winter sunlight.

 

‘But you’re kicking them out of their homes,’ Draco points out, not unreasonably.

 

‘We really aren’t,’ Ron insists. ‘They’ll all be tucked up in their burrows again tonight.’

 

Harry swings his gnome and launches it into the field, past the stump and beyond Ron’s. ‘Let’s see you beat that, Malfoy,’ Harry challenges with a grin.

 

Draco is genuinely surprised by the challenge for a moment, but he quickly regains his competitive nature and launches his own gnome. It lands just a couple of feet short of the stump and he can tell that, for a first effort, Harry is rather impressed. Not that he gives himself long to revel in it, of course. Instead, he begins rummaging through the snowy undergrowth for his next gnome.

 

After all, he must beat Potter.

  
  


 

 

Draco really isn’t sure how much more he can take of this. Having Harry so close and so tactile all the time is amazing, but he feels like he might explode.

In fact, he thinks, as he buttons his pyjama top, this is the first time he has been without his scruffy shadow all day and all of a sudden this strikes him as odd. He has no idea where Harry has gone, and as he picks up his wash bag and towel and heads to the bathroom, Draco finds himself listening closely for any sign of him in the house.

 

He hears nothing, nothing but the creaks and howls and rattles, nothing, that is, until he pushes open the bathroom door.

 

There is a sudden swish-slosh and a yelp and Draco turns from where he had been trying to peer down the stairs to see Harry, peeping over the edge of the bath, skin steaming and glistening in the candlelight. He stares, stares for a lot longer than he knows he should, stares at the way Harry’s damp hair clings to his face, stares at the definition of Harry shoulders, stares at the strong hands that grip the edge of the tub, and then he realises he is staring and quickly looks away.

 

‘Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,’ he apologises, backing out of the bathroom and attempting to shut the door.

 

‘It’s alright, Draco!’ Harry calls. ‘You can come in.’

 

Draco pauses in his attempts to extricate himself.

 

‘I’m sorry?’ he asks, certain that his wishful thinking is interfering with his hearing.

 

‘Come in and shut the door,’ Harry says, relaxing back into the water. ‘You want to get ready for bed and I’m not ready to get out yet.’

 

Without his permission, Draco’s feet step into the bathroom and he shuts the door behind him. Inside, the air is heavy with steam that smells of menthol and room is lit by a few candles hovering over the bath.

 

‘I thought the hot water might help my shoulder,’ Harry explains, and Draco takes a step forward. ‘I suppose this is what I get for showing off,’ he adds, cracking open one eye and smiling at Draco.

 

‘Well, it was an impressive throw, at least,’ Draco manages, realising that if he just keeps standing there in silence, Harry will quickly realise something is the matter.

 

‘That’s something,’ Harry says and Draco realises that if he’s going to get through this, he is going to have to at least attempt to continue as normal. He came in here to brush his teeth and wash his face and that is exactly what he is going to do.

 

If nothing else, he thinks, as he applies toothpaste to his brush, it will give him a couple of minutes during which he needs to neither look at nor talk to Harry without raising suspicion.

 

The methodical process manages to calm his mind slightly and it is a much calmer Draco who packs his flannel and toothbrush back into its little bag. ‘Thanks,’ he says to Harry and is just about to wish him a good night and leave when Harry does something that completely fries the self-preservation circuits in his brain.

 

‘Not a problem,’ Harry says, raising his hand to effect a little wave and wincing in pain.

 

‘What you need,’ Draco hears himself say, ‘is a shoulder rub.’

 

‘Are you offering?’ Harry grins, and Draco knows that this is not going to end well, but he seems completely powerless to stop it.

 

‘Lean forward,’ he instructs, placing his bag on the sink and rolling up his sleeves.

 

Harry’s smile widens as he sloshes about in the bath, leaning forward, and Draco perches on the edge.

 

He focuses very hard on the water seeping into his trousers and on the awkward twist he is forced to make to reach Harry’s shoulder. He focuses on keeping his balance, on not falling into the bath, anything to keep him from focusing entirely on Harry’s smooth, warm skin under his hands as he manipulates the sore muscle.

 

Harry groans with pleasure, a low sensual noise that goes right through Draco and sends the blood rushing to his groin. His strokes get longer, his fingers trailing across Harry’s shoulder blades, up to his neck, down his arms.

 

Harry is leaning back into his touch, and any minute now his head will tip back and Draco will be looking into his face and he won’t be able to resist. He’s swept along; it’s going to happen, finally as long as nothing...

 

_Bang, bang, bang._

‘Are you going to be long in there...? Only, I need the bathroom!’ Hermione’s voice is urgent and Draco stumbles backward just as Harry sits up straight.

 

‘All right, Hermione, be out in a minute,’ Harry calls, looking apologetically at Draco.

 

‘I’ll see you in a minute,’ Draco says, gathering up his things and heading for the door. He knows how this is going to look but there really is no way to avoid it. Opening the door a crack, he steps out into the hall. The cool air slaps him in the face after the intense humidity of the bathroom. And, of course, there she is, eyes wide and a knowing expression on her face.

 

‘So, what happened?’ she whispers urgently, and Draco thinks for a moment and realises that he has no way of answering that question.

 

‘Hermione, I really have no idea,’ he says and, leaving her looking confused, he retreats to the simplicity of his bed.


	22. part twenty-two

Prompt #22 - stew

 

Tuesday, December 22nd1998

 

Preparation

 

‘Harry, dear, could you go and fetch some eggs, please?’ Molly asks the following morning. The bustle of breakfast has passed and she is resolutely tying an apron around her waist and extracting baking trays, tins and pies dishes from the cupboard.

 

‘Can I come?’ Draco asks, thinking that a walk into the village might do him some good. His trousers are already starting to feel a little snugger than they usually do, and he has only been at the Burrow for a couple of days.

 

‘Sure,’ Harry agrees. ‘I need some help distracting Berkley, he can be a little over protective of his ladies.’

 

Draco frowns, unsure just who or what Berkley is.

 

In the back yard, Harry turns away from the lane and heads towards the bottom of the garden and it isn’t until he sees the chicken coop that Draco realises his mistake. Feeling his face heat, he glances at Harry, wondering if he has noticed anything, but Harry is looking around furtively, a hand extended back towards Draco to tell him not to come any closer.

 

Eventually, he straightens up with a bright smile. ‘Looks like we’re in luck,’ he says, pointing through the trees to where a tough-looking rooster is scratching distractedly at something on the other side of the yard. ‘He‘s ancient,’ Harry explains, ‘a little deaf and more than a little blind, but he still defends his hens with beak and claw if he thinks anyone is upsetting them. We should be alright, though—whatever that is, it’s much more interesting than us.’

 

An old fat hen comes waddling towards them and Harry stoops to scratch her feathered head. ‘Morning, Martha,’ he coos, steps over her and ducks into the coop.

 

‘Do they all have names?’ Draco asks, following Harry into the hen house.

 

‘Of course,’ Harry nods. ‘Obviously, you’ve met Martha,’ he says, pointing to the hen that has followed them back inside and is now pecking affectionately at his shoe.

 

‘This is Ethel, Roberta, Francine, Loretta, Beryl, Gladys, Seraphina, Norma and Super Chicken the Destroyer,’ Harry says, pointing to each of the birds in turn.

 

‘Super Chicken the Destroyer?’ Draco asks, looking at a small and innocent-looking hen as Harry begins to collect the eggs.

 

‘George named her after she tore a massive hole in Ron’s Chudley Cannons shirt. Apparently, she is violently opposed to the colour orange,’ Harry explains.

 

‘Ah, clever girl,’ Draco coos, stroking the smooth feathers on the chickens chest. He’s never really had the best experiences with animals, but he is delighted when the apparently highly-strung ‘Super Chicken’ closes her eyes contentedly and leans into his touch.

 

‘She likes you,’ Harry observes. ‘You clearly have a way with chickens.’

 

‘I always wanted a pet,’ Draco admits, continuing to stroke the hen. ‘Theo used to have this enormous house rabbit called Barney and I always wanted one. It wouldn’t have needed to be one of the big ones but my father was having none of it. Apparently, a rabbit is not a suitable pet for a Malfoy.’

 

‘You should get one,’ Harry insists, ducking back out of the hen house with the basket of eggs. ‘He’s not going to stop you now, is he?’

 

As they make their way back to the kitchen, Draco can’t help himself, and he allows himself a moment to wonder what pet he might get.

 

Twenty minutes later, all three of them are gathered around the kitchen table, kneading huge quantities of bread dough.

 

‘What am I doing wrong?’ Draco asks, failing to keep the slight whine out of his voice as he looks between his lump of dough and the two smooth pieces that Harry has produced so far.

 

Draco pushes at the sticky, lumpy ball and begins to despair. This is something he is never going to master.

 

‘You need to be firmer with it,’ Harry explains, after watching him for a moment, and he steps behind Draco and reaches around him in attempt to show him what to do.

 

‘Just push into it with the heel of your hand and the fold it all back in on itself and do it again,’ Harry explains, slowing his movements so that Draco can see what he’s doing.   Draco shifts slightly and his body brushes against Harry’s for all too brief a moment before Harry is stepping back and leaving Draco to attempt to follow his directions.

 

‘That’s it,’ Harry reassures, and Draco notices with pleasure that Harry’s voice is just slightly higher that it would normally sound and, when he returns to his own bread, he throws himself into it with more vigour than before.

 

As the day wears on, they produce a variety of cakes and pies, pastries and breads: enough food to feed a small army. Harry seems to have been assigned pastry and he makes short-crust for quiches, puff for vol-au-vents, choux for a tray of fancy-looking éclairs and hot-water pastry for a vast pork pie.

 

And, all the while, he is directing Draco, talking him through the making of a stew for that night’s dinner.

 

As Draco chops vegetables, fries meat and mixes dumplings, he falls into the rhythm of it. He realises, amused, that the whole process is not that different from potion-making, something that he has always found very soothing and very easy to lose himself in.

 

For the first time in a long time he feels calm; the problems that he has faced with Harry are big, they are huge, life-changing things, but the reality of the situation is that things have already become untenable. He is not entirely certain what he has been attempting to achieve by keeping all this to himself.

It’s not as though this situation can continue indefinitely, he thinks, turning over the turkey as it starts to brown. Harry is his best friend; that isn’t going to change any time soon, but then nor are Draco’s feelings for him.

 

If he tells him how he feels, he risks losing him as a friend, but by not saying anything, surely he is doing his friend a disservice; he is saying that he doesn’t trust him, and really, without trust, a friendship is worthless.

 

Then, of course, there is the thing that he is really scared of: what if Harry _is_ interested? He can’t be certain whether or not it comes down to wishful thinking, but Draco is almost certain that over the past week Harry has been flirting with him. And that is what really scares him. There’s a chance he might get everything he wants, and then what?

 

By the time Draco sits down to eat that night, he is tired, but he is resolved. He is going to talk to Harry, just as soon as they return to school in the new year. He wants to be able to just throw caution to the wind, to trust Harry and to tell him right now, but he is here in someone else’s house for Christmas, and it will be impossible to extract himself without making some kind of scene if it all goes wrong.

 

‘Mum, this smells amazing,’ Ron enthuses from across the table as he takes a big spoonful of stew that is certain to scald his mouth; sure enough, moments later, he has his mouth open and is desperately sucking in air to try to cool the food.

 

‘Actually, Draco made it,' Harry says and there is no mistaking the pride in his voice. Draco feels his resolve begin to waver; after all, January seems like an awfully long way away.


	23. part twenty-three

Prompt #23 - a hallway full of coats

 

Wednesday December 23rd, 1998

 

The Liking Sort of Way

 

‘Last one to the paddock has to referee,’ Charlie calls as he belts out of the house mid-afternoon and Draco stands in the hallway, staring at the bank of brightly-coloured coats on the rack, torn about what to do. He could grab his coat and run, be certain to be the second into the paddock and not end up having to referee a match where nobbling each other almost comes second to the game, or he could risk being last, and go and retrieve his Quidditch gloves in the interests of preventing his hands from freezing to his broomstick.

 

‘Ginny, have you got a minute?’

 

He hears Harry’s voice filter through the not-quite-closed parlour door and thinks that maybe he should tell him that this is no time for a heart-to-heart with his ex-girlfriend, not when there’s a Quidditch match to play.

 

Ginevra seems to be of the same mind. ‘Can it wait, Harry?’ she asks. ‘I really don’t want to end up refereeing.’

 

‘I guess,’ Harry says, though he sounds reluctant. Ginevra hears it, too.

 

‘Okay, Harry,’ she says and it sounds like she has chosen to sit down. ‘What’s the matter?’

 

Draco shakes himself; he has no idea what he thinks he’s doing, listening at the door, but he knows it is impolite. He turns, deciding to abandon his gloves and get out into the cold, fresh air as quickly as possible, hoping that it will clear his head, but he still hears Harry’s response.

 

‘It’s about Draco.’

 

Draco freezes where he is and leans heavily against the coat-covered wall. It’s about him, which means he definitely shouldn’t be listening to this. No good ever came from listening at keyholes, or so his mother has always said. His father, on the other hand, has always maintained that information is power, and if that isn’t a fantastic reason to just walk away right the fuck now, he doesn’t know what is.

 

Unfortunately, he seems completely unable to get his legs to co-operate.

 

‘I just don’t know where I am any more,’ Harry is saying beyond the door and, if Draco shuts his eyes, he can see him; he’s pacing back and forth and his hands are in his hair, dishevelling it beyond belief.

 

‘What do you mean?’ Ginevra asks gently. ‘I thought the two of you were best friends. You certainly seem quite...’ she trails off and it sounds like she’s hunting for the right word.

 

‘Seem quite what?’ Harry asks, a note of hysteria in his voice.

 

‘Friendly,’ Ginevra replies, and her tone suggests that she thinks Harry might have gone a little bit mad. ‘You seem quite friendly... why, have you fallen out or something?’ she asks, and just the suggestion makes Draco feel a little sick.

 

‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ Harry insists, and though he had already known that was the case, Draco finds himself breathing a small sigh of relief.

 

‘Then what?’ Ginevra asks.

 

‘I don’t know,’ Harry says, suddenly sounding reluctant.

 

‘You do know,’ Ginevra insists.

 

‘I think...’ Harry pauses. ‘I think I like Draco,’ he continues in a rush, ‘you know, in a liking sort of way.’

 

There is a long moment of silence, during which Draco thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe. He doesn’t know if he has ever been as happy to overhear Harry’s inarticulate ramblings.

 

A soft sound issues from the room, and at first Draco thinks Ginevra is crying. Despite his elation, he feels bad for her. He thinks about how he would feel if Harry were to talk to him about his feelings for someone else. He thinks about the conflict that must exist between the desire to be supportive and the feeling of loss. Then the sound becomes louder and he realises, at last, that she is laughing.

 

‘Why is that funny?’ Harry asks, voicing Draco’s thoughts perfectly.

 

‘Oh, Harry,’ she says, slightly breathless. ‘It isn’t, it really isn’t, it’s just...’

 

‘It’s just what?’ Harry asks, sounding slightly disgruntled now.

 

‘Duh!’ Ginevra says, and she’s giggling again.

 

‘What are you talking about?’ Harry asks.

 

‘Oh, Harry, I think the only two people who haven’t noticed that you and Draco are in love are you and Draco,’ she points out.

 

‘Even Ron?’ Harry asks.

 

‘Even Ron!’

 

‘Why didn’t anyone say anything?’ Harry asks, exasperated now.

 

‘We thought you’d figure it out in your own time,’ she says calmly.

 

Inside the living room, Harry continues to fret, but out in the hallway, finally in possession of all the information, Draco finally stops listening, and, as quietly as he can, he sneaks outside.

 

The winter air stings his cheeks as he grabs his broom from the shed and makes his way towards the paddock. Inside, however, he feels warm and light, because he loves Harry and Harry loves him and he’ll be damned if he’s waiting until they go back to school. All he needs now is the right moment.


	24. part twenty-four

Prompt #24 - a meal by the fire

Thursday December 24th, 1998  
  
The Hydrangea Bush  
  
  
By four o’clock on Christmas Eve, Draco is frustrated. He has had weeks of quiet moments on his own with Harry, when he has felt the need to control himself at every moment, and now, now that he can finally let go, he can’t manage three minutes alone with him. Everywhere he looks, there is a Weasley. Bill has finished work and he and Fleur have come to stay, taking over Ron’s room and forcing Ron to move in with Harry and Draco on a fold-up bed.  
  
In addition to Bill and Fleur, Mr Weasley and Percy have also finished work and everyone has been bustling around the house all day, cleaning and decorating and adding the finishing touches to canapés. Everyone has been dragooned into helping, bar Fleur, who has instead been forced, despite many protests that she is fine, to sit in the parlour with a cup of ginger tea following a rather violent bout of morning sickness.  
  
Currently, Draco is standing with Harry, Ron and Hermione in the garden and enjoying a cup of tea beneath the mesh of warming and umbrella charms they have just created in an attempt to keep the chill from the guests who will in no way all fit into the house. The sun has just slipped below the horizon, casting a pink-purple light across the fresh snow, and above the copse beyond the paddock, a flock of starlings are wheeling their way in mesmerising patterns through the sky.  
  
The four of them watch the birds as they swirl and dive and Draco chances a quick glance at Harry, only to find him looking right back. Feeling brave, he refuses to look away, a slow smile creeping across his face when Harry, too, just continues to meet his eyes. An understanding seems to crackle into life between them and Draco knows that all he needs now is a little patience.  
  
‘I can’t believe it,’ Ron says next to him and Draco drags his eyes away to look at the apparently unbelievable thing. There, creeping across the lawn towards the trestle table, is a rather ambitious garden gnome. All four of them watch as the gnome, apparently unaware it has been spotted, slips beneath the table to hide behind the red linen table cloth and, no-doubt, pilfer as soon as the tables are heaving with food.  
  
Harry passes his teacup to Draco, sneaks across the patio and stoops down next to the table, darting his hand though the cloth and drawing out the incensed gnome. He is just preparing to send it into the fresh powdered snow of the field beyond when Draco has an idea.   
  
‘Wait,’ he calls, and Harry looks around at him curiously. ‘I have an idea. Does anyone know what their favourite food is?’ he asks.   
  
‘Chicken,’ Ron pipes up. ‘Mum’s always finding chicken bones strewn across the garden after a roast dinner.’  
  
‘Right,’ Draco says, looking into the beady little eyes of the gnome as it dangles upside down in Harry’s hand. ‘I will give you two chicken drumsticks,’ he promises, and the gnome immediately stops thrashing about.   
  
‘Steady on, Draco,’ Ron says from behind him, apparently scandalised. Draco ignores him.  
  
‘In return,’ Draco continues, ‘you will stand at the gate, wearing something festive, and greet the guests.’  
  
‘Oh, Draco, that’s cruel,’ Hermione insists, but she sounds amused, as do Harry and Ron.   
  
‘Two drumsticks and two sausages,’ the gnome barters, crossing its tiny arms and sticking out its chin.  
  
‘Done,’ Draco agrees. After all, Molly has made enough food to feed the entire village well into next year. He holds out his hand and the gnome grips his finger in a gnarled little fist and shakes it.   
  
Amused, Harry lowers him to the ground and sets him on his feet. Draco snatches a couple of paper napkins from the pile and Transfigures them into a tutu and a pair of wings.  
  
‘There you go,’ he says, passing the gnome-sized outfit over. The gnome looks at the outfit and then at him with utter disdain before putting it on and heading off to his post for the evening  
  
Soon after the guests begin to arrive—most, if not all, very amused by the welcome party—Harry, Draco and Ron deliberately settle themselves near the entrance, just so that they can continue to enjoy the spectacle that is a grumpy gnome dressed as the sugar plum fairy and scowling whilst welcoming all the new visitors as if it were a life-long curse.  
  
‘Well, that’s not something I ever thought I’d see,’ comes the rich, almost too loud voice of Blaise as he strides into the garden and looks around.   
  
At a nearby table, Draco sees Ginevra straighten in her seat at the sound of Blaise’s voice and immediately begin rearranging her hair. Unable to resist, Draco jabs Harry in the ribs with his elbow, and directs his attention to Ginevra. Next to him, Harry grins.  
  
Slowly, the evening slips away. Draco finds himself spending all of his time with Blaise, not wanting to abandon him to an unfamiliar environment. Not that he is complaining; Blaise is excellent company, as always, full of enthusiasm for everything around him and always ready with a joke or a story. Draco finds that they are never short of people to talk with as the other guests are drawn in by Blaise’s deep laugh and gregarious personality.  
Still, in the back of his mind, he had entertained the idea of at some point leaving Blaise and Ginevra to talk together and then, of course, he would be free. Free to find Harry and... well, he’s not entirely sure what will happen then, but he knows he’s looking forward to it.   
  
By eleven o’clock, however, he is beginning to lose hope. Admittedly, Ginevra has been sitting with them for the past half-hour, but then so have Charlie and Fred, and since Blaise is currently in the middle of a story about a priest, a goat and a rather smelly piece of cheese, he can’t see either of them leaving anytime soon.   
  
Blaise is just getting to the punch-line when Ginevra rises to excuse herself.   
  
‘I’m sorry, I think I hear my mother calling,’ she says, but Draco notices the pointed look that passes between her and his oldest friend. Neither does he fail to notice that, rather than enter the house, she slips off around the side towards the front yard.   
  
Despite immediately launching back into the story, he knows that Blaise has spotted her direction as well and he is unsurprised when, at the end of the story, Blaise excuses himself to ‘answer a call of nature.’ Draco can’t help smiling at his friend’s hidden meaning as he is left alone for the first time that evening.  
  
Immediately, he scans the crowds and realises that Harry is not amongst them. It’s very unlikely he’ll be in the house, either, Draco thinks to himself. Harry hates to feel claustrophobic and, with all these people, the house has become cramped and uncomfortable.   
  
Deciding that it is much more likely that Harry has sloped off somewhere for a moment of peace and quiet, he heads away from the area covered by the warming charms, stepping out of their comfortable protection and into air that makes him shiver as it meets his warm skin.  
  
Scanning the dark area of the garden, he spies what he thinks would make an excellent hiding place and heads towards it, the noise and the smells receding with each step.  
  
As he approaches the half-dead hydrangea bush, he knows he’s right; a breeze riffles through the leaves, carrying the scent of Harry with it. Taking a deep breath, he steels himself and rounds the bush, ensuring that he makes enough noise to avoid alarming Harry.  
  
‘You alright?’ he asks solicitously as Harry catches sight of him.  
  
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Harry smiles. ‘There are just rather a lot of people. I needed some quiet time.’  
  
‘Do you want me to go?’ Draco asks, delighted when Harry shakes his head firmly.   
  
‘No,’ he says, taking a step towards Draco and reaching out a hand as though to physically prevent him from leaving. ‘No, I really don’t want that.’   
  
‘Good,’ Draco says, his voice barely above a whisper. And then he is stepping forward, closing the space between them and wrapping cold fingers around a colder wrist. And now their faces are inches apart, and Draco can feel Harry’s breathing, fast and irregular. Draco inclines his head, placing his lips to Harry’s for the first time, relieved when Harry’s arm wraps around him and he grips the back of his shirt. Harry’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip and he is falling. Falling into Harry, and it feels so right; it feels like this is where he was always supposed to be, and he threads his fingers into Harry’s hair and hangs on for dear life as, all around him, everything shifts and time disappears.   
  
‘I’m sure I saw them come this way...’   
  
The voice seems to come from far away, and Draco brushes it aside, pressing himself more firmly against Harry and having to try hard to resist groaning as he feels Harry hardening against his leg.   
  
‘Well, we’d better find them. Mum will notice if they aren’t there for the – oh!’ The voice is much closer this time and something in Draco’s mind seems to be trying to reassert itself.  
  
‘Ahem.’ The loud cough comes from behind Draco and he jumps, turning to see Hermione, Ron, Ginevra, Blaise and Charlie, all standing there with ridiculously amused expressions on their faces. Behind him, Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and rests his chin on Draco’s shoulder.  
  
‘Is there something you wanted?’ he asks.


	25. part twenty-five

**Christmas Day**

 

The carols are still in full swing when Harry takes Draco’s hand and pulls him away from the guests and the house. Silently, he leads Draco thought the garden, through the paddock and down to a stream which seems to sparkle in the moonlight. A large, smooth rock slants gently down to the water and Harry scrambles onto it enthusiastically.

 

Draco climbs up next to him and looks up at the stars; out here, well away from the cosy warming charms of the party, it is bitterly cold, but so clear. He turns to look at Harry, just at the moment that his knee, so well-behaved for the past few days, gives way. Quickly, Draco flings out an arm, catching Harry around the waist and pulling him tight against him.

 

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were falling for me,’ Draco says, immediately wanting the trite and clichéd words back.

 

Harry, however, drops his face to Draco’s shoulder and laughs helplessly, cold nose pressed against Draco’s warm neck.

 

‘I can’t believe you said that,’ he laughs, words tickling against Draco’s ear and causing him to shiver uncontrollably.

 

‘Yes, well,’ he mutters, helping Harry to sit down onto the rock and casting a warming charm. ‘It isn’t my fault,’ he says, settling beside Harry. ‘I probably partook of a little more of the mulled mead than I should have. Trying to build up the courage, you see?’

 

‘Am I really that scary?’ Harry asks, flashing a lopsided smile that sends Draco’s heart skittering.

 

‘The possibility that you’d hate me was pretty scary,’ Draco whispers.

 

Harry leans close now and Draco’s breath catches. ‘I promise, you never had anything to worry about,’ he murmurs, and then he is closing the last two or three inches, pressing his lips to Draco’s again and again. The kisses quickly lose their innocence and become a series of gasping and needy open-mouthed kisses.

 

Harry’s hands are everywhere, weaving into his hair, sliding beneath his sweater, electrifying his skin and making him want everything, more, now and he pushes Harry back, covering him and relishing the press of his body beneath him.

 

He shifts against Harry, pressure and friction making him groan softly... or is Harry who groans? It’s beginning to become unclear where he stops and Harry ends.

 

Blunt nails dig into his back, pulling him closer; Draco slides his fingers across Harry’s jaw, kissing him again, mouths and tongues sliding together so easily now, as though it’s the way things have always been.

 

Harry grips his arse, thrusting against him needily and Draco gasps as heat begins to pool in his groin. He looks at Harry, at his swollen mouth and his eyes now dark with desire, and he pushes back, a thrill of delight chasing down his spine when Harry cries out. They begin to move together instinctively, breath coming short and fast as, inside him, something coils tighter and tighter, drawing closer and closer to the inevitable release.

 

Beneath him, Harry cries out, arching his body up into Draco’s and sending him tumbling over the edge with a cry of his own.

 

Suffused with a feeling of warmth and well-being, Draco rolls off Harry, pillowing his head against his chest and listening to the gurgling of the stream as they both try to get their breath back. He thinks about how far they’ve come, from enemies to allies, from friends to this, and he realises just how long _this_ has been in the making. From reaching out his hand and offering Draco redemption, to putting the past in the past and being willing to start again; he loves Harry for all these things and more. He is totally lost to this man.

 

Some part of him is telling him, reminding him that he should be terrified at the thought, but he isn’t. After all, he’s beginning to get used to taking the unknown road now.

 


End file.
